No other such mining camp ever existed. Side by side with lawlessness and the roughest makeshifts there existed a high civilization which was satisfied with nothing less than the best. In the days to come, after the town had found its feet, McCullough, Booth, Barrett, and Modjeska played at Piper’s Opera House within a stone’s throw of the raucous uproar of the hurdy-gurdy houses. One lucky miner expressed himself in a mansion equipped with door stops of gold and door knobs of silver; another lifted his eyes to the stars and wrote his soul out with fire-tipped pen. In this heterogeneous society there was at first no class consciousness. The professional gambler had a special standing. He was accepted as necessary to the community, much as a doctor or a merchant was. He set the standard of dress and of manners. If he was a “square sport” he played a fair game. The most distinguished men in the camp were glad to sit down at poker with such a gambler as Scot McClintock. So long as the road from California was open Virginia City lived on the best that could be imported. But during the heavy winter just ending the trail had been closed for months. Food was dangerously short. The supply of potatoes and onions, the staple vegetables, had become completely exhausted. There was very little fresh meat, though jackrabbits were fortunately plentiful. To make conditions worse, soft heavy spring snows blocked the passes and made transportation impossible. At Placerville and at Strawberry Flat great trains of supplies waited for the opening of the trail. On a sunny windswept afternoon Scot McClintock made his way from the International Hotel to the Crystal Palace, where he dealt faro to a high-priced clientele. He was pleasantly at peace with the world. If he carried a derringer in his pocket it was as a concession to the custom of a country where every man went armed. His progress along B Street and through the Crystal Palace to his seat was in the nature of a reception. For everybody knew Scot and wanted to claim acquaintance with him. He nodded to the players, slid into his chair, and began to deal. His face took on the gambler’s mask of impassivity. This mask did not lift when a heavy-set huge man slouched into the Crystal Palace and to the corner where McClintock presided. Someone hastily moved aside to give the newcomer a place. Nobody in Virginia City disputed any question of precedence with Sam Dutch. The desperado had been drinking. It was apparent to all that he was in an ugly humour. Gradually, inconspicuously, the players at that end of the hall cashed in their chips and departed from the immediate vicinity. Scot continued to deal with a wooden face, but behind his expressionless eyes was a wary intentness. Dutch meant trouble. He had come with the deliberate intention of making it.