“Well,” said Mr. Baxter, “it’s the starter for one if the people don’t starve to death. The weak hearts will go back; the strong ones will stick; it’s only a question of holding out for a while until the land is cultivated.” Truly, Denver was a strange collection of tents and shacks, with a few good buildings. The houses were of hewn logs, sod roofs and dirt floors, and the furniture was made mostly from slabs and planks. There were few windows; and these were filled with sacking stretched across or else had wooden shutters. As far as Davy could see, the whole town did not have a pane of glass. However, the streets (and particularly the two main streets named Blake and Larimer) were thronged with people as thick as the crowds at the other end of the route, Leavenworth. Indians, Mexicans and whites fairly jostled elbows, and conversation in every variety of speech was heard. The whites wore costumes ranging from the broadcloth frock coat and flowing trousers of the St. Louis and New York merchant to the flannel shirt, jeans trousers and heavy boots of the regular plainsman and miner. The Mexicans wore their broad, high-peaked hats and their serapes or gay Mexican blankets, draped from their shoulders. The Indians stalked about bare-headed, and enveloped in their blankets also. There were few women. Several stores handling general merchandise had been opened, but according to the signs goods were expensive. One sign said: “Antelope Meat, 4 cents a lb.” Picks and spades were the cheapest; they could be bought for fifteen cents apiece, and nobody seemed to be buying at that! This was a bad sign; it showed how disgusted many of the overlanders had become when they found that they could not dig gold out by the pound where they stopped! Right in the centre of Denver was a large village of Indians, camped in their tipis. By the hundreds they were lounging about, men, women and children, the men unclothed except for a girdle about the waist, and the children wearing nothing at all. “Arapahoes,” pronounced Mr. Baxter. “Come on, Davy. There’s the stage. Let’s go over to the hotel.” A large cloth sign before a long one-story log building said: “Denver House.” It was next to the Arapahoe village. People were hurrying across to this hotel, for a stage-coach, with crack of whip and cheer from passengers and driver, had halted short in front of it. The coach, drawn by its four mules, dusty and lathered, bore the lettering: “Leavenworth & Pike’s Peak Express Co.” So this, then, was the daily Leavenworth stage. Already the street before the hotel was crowded with onlookers who had gathered to receive the coach. When Davy and Mr. Baxter arrived the travel-worn passengers were clambering out. The first was Mr. Majors himself! Davy recognized the long beard and he and Mr. Baxter pressed forward to welcome their friend. “Why, hello, boys,” quoth Mr. Majors. “Where’d you drop from?”