he curiosity to attend the trial,
expecting to assist at an uproarious farce. All the proceedings, on the
contrary, were conducted with the greatest decorum, and with minute
attention to legal formalities. The assassin, however, was acquitted.

From that time the outrages increased in number and in boldness. No man
known to be possessed of any quantity of gold was safe. It was dangerous
to walk alone after dark, to hunt alone in the mountains, to live alone.
Every man carried his treasure about with him everywhere he went. No man
dared raise his voice in criticism of the ruling powers, for it was
pretty generally understood that such criticism meant death.

It would be supposed, naturally, by you in our modern and civilized
days, that such a condition of affairs would cast a fear and gloom over
the life of the community. Not at all. Men worked and played and gambled
and drank and joked and carried on the light-hearted, jolly existence of
the camps just about the same as ever. Outside a few principals like
Morton and his immediate satellites, there was no accurate demarkation
between the desperadoes and the miners. Indeed, no one was ever quite
sure of where his next neighbour's sympathies lay. We all mingled
together, joked, had a good time--and were exceedingly cautious. It was
a polite community. Personal quarrels were the product of the moment,
and generally settled at the moment or soon after. Enmities were matters
for individual adjustment.

Randall's express messengers continued to make their irregular trips
with the gold dust. They were never attacked, though they were
convinced, and I think justly, that on numerous occasions they had only
just escaped attack. Certainly the sums of money they carried were more
than sufficient temptation to the bandits. They knew their country,
however, and were full of Indian-like ruses, twists, doublings and turns
which they employed with great gusto. How long they would have succeeded
in eluding what I considered the inevitable, I do not know; but at this
time occurred the events that I shall detail in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE LAST STRAW

This is a chapter I hate to write; and therefore I shall get it over
with as soon as possible.

Yank had progressed from his bunk to the bench outside, and from that to
a slow hobbling about near the Morena cabin. Two of the three months
demanded by Dr. Rankin had passed. Yank's leg had been taken from the
splint,