The town was an uncouth and windswept camp, but it represented uncounted hopes and amazing energy. In this mass of porphyry lay the fabulously rich Comstock Lode, from which in a single generation nearly a billion dollars’ worth of ore was to be taken. The Concord dropped down into B Street, the horses covering the home stretch at a gallop. Baldy brought the coach along the rough street at a dead run, sweeping it skillfully around a train of wood-packed burros. He stopped exactly in front of the company’s office, twined the reins around the brake bar, and smiled at Scot. “Yore friend the peddler will feel sold when he hears you wasn’t scalped.” “The scenery flew past so fast I couldn’t tell whether it was punctuated with Piutes or not,” said Scot genially, as he swung down to help Hugh from inside. The younger McClintock stepped out stiffly. “Hope I didn’t mix yore inside geography too much,” Baldy asked him. “I’m all right. The docs say the inside of a stagecoach is first rate for the inside of a man,” Hugh answered. “Tha’s right, too—for a well man; but they don’t say it’s a sure cure for one the Injuns have been playin’ with, do they? Well, so long, young fellow. Don’t you let that rip-snortin’ brother o’ yours c’rupt you none.” CHAPTER V SCOT PASSES THE HAT Through the throngs that crowded, not only the dilapidated sidewalks, but also the street itself, Scot guided his brother deftly toward the hotel. The whole appearance of the place was still higgledy-piggledy. Men lived in tents, in dugouts, in prospect holes, in shacks built of dry-goods boxes, canvas sacks, and brush. They cooked and ate as best they could, while they went about their business of prospecting or buying and selling “feet”[4] in what by courtesy were called mines. ----- [4] In Virginia City mining interests were then sold by feet, and not by shares.—W. M. R. ----- “We’ll cut across this lot,” the gambler suggested. A mud-stained wagon with a dirty canvas top had been unhitched close to the street. Two bony and dejected horses were tied to the wheels eating some brush that they were trying to persuade themselves was hay. Hugh commented on the broomtails. “So thin they won’t throw a shadow.” A moment later he was sorry, for as they rounded the wagon he saw a woman and child crouched over a camp fire. They were cooking a stew. A man sat on the wagon tongue smoking. He looked at the passing men out of sullen, clouded eyes. A voice from the sidewalk drifted to the brothers. “Trouble, looks like. Sam Dutch has got Red Mike backed up against the bar of the Mile High, and he’s tryin’ to devil him into drawing a six-shooter.”