On what had been known as Eagle Ranch, in the valley of the same name, the town of Carson had been built. During the previous decade both Eagle and Carson valleys had served as a refuge for those who ran off stolen stock from San Francisco and other California points. In these hidden parks the outlaws had been accustomed to rest and feed the herds before making the desert trip by obscure routes to Salt Lake. But those days were past. Carson now had two thousand inhabitants, a boom in town lots, and a civic consciousness. It had become respectable, though guns still flashed frequently. Already it was laying political wires to become the capital of Nevada, the “battle-born” state. Through Carson supplies came by way of Mormon Station for the diggings at Virginia, along a road which wound around the base of the hills. As Scot drove in, the air was musical with chimes. Some of these came soft and mellow from a great distance. Each mule of the freight outfits had a circlet of bells suspended in a steel bow above its collar. They made music as they moved. At the hay corral into which McClintock drove, scores of outfits were gathered, most of them freighters to or from the diggings. A dozen others could be heard jingling in, from one direction or the other. The winter had been a severe one, and hundreds of cattle in the adjacent valleys had died for lack of feed. Hay was scarce. There was a very strong demand for it to feed the freight outfits. Just now the price was three hundred dollars a ton. Ranchers found it far more profitable to let their cattle rustle on bunch grass and take a chance of roughing through than to feed hay worth such a price. Wherefore all the native hay went to the stock hauling supplies. Scot hailed Baldy Green, a well-known stage driver. “How about places up on the stage for me and Hugh to-morrow, old-timer?” Baldy rubbed the top of his shiny head and grinned at him. “Full up. Like to ditch a couple of my passengers for you if I could—a jewellery peddler and a sky pilot—but I don’t reckon I can, Scot.” The eyes of the older McClintock sparkled. “Show ’em to me, Baldy.” Three minutes later the Beau Brummel of Virginia City might have been seen in earnest conversation with a clergyman who hailed from Buffalo, New York. He was telling the story of the Indian attack upon his brother and making certain deductions from it. His manner of grave deference was perfect. “But bless my soul, do you really think the redskins are likely to attack the stage to-morrow?” asked the startled missionary. “Can’t tell, sir. They were certainly heading this way when last seen. Big chance of it, I’d say. I’m a sinner—a professional gambler. What does it matter about me? But you—the only minister of the Gospel in a hundred miles—you can’t be spared. The harvest is ripe for the reaper. Why not wait here a day or two and make sure the Piutes are not around?”