It read: “H. Murat. Tonsorial Artist. Shaves, Trims and Cuts. Laundry Done.” “Do you know who he is?” piped another voice at Davy’s side, as the dark foreigner disappeared in the crowd. “He’s a count, a real Italian count.” The speaker was a slender, fair-haired little fellow, not much older than Dave himself. “He’s Count Murat. His father was a big man in Italy. But out here the count’s a barber and his wife takes in washing.” “I declare!” ejaculated Mr. Baxter. “And where did you come from, son?” “From the States. I’ve been up in the diggin’s, but I froze my feet and I’m going home.” “Are your folks here?” “No, sir. I ran away. But I’ve got enough and when I reach home I’m going to stay there.” “Well, you’d better,” approved Mr. Baxter. “You’re too young to be out here alone.” “I guess I am,” admitted the little fellow. “Life out here is fierce unless you’re used to it.” “How are the diggin’s?” queried Davy, eagerly. “Forty miles into the mountains――and then always a little farther,” asserted the young fellow. “If you can stick it out and don’t freeze to death or starve to death you may make a few hundred dollars――and you may not. Did you ever mine?” “No,” said Davy, and Mr. Baxter shook his head, smiling. “Then you’re tenderfeet like I am. That’s the trouble in there. Half the people don’t know how to find gold and the other half don’t know it when they do find it. It’s fierce, I tell you. _I’m_ bound home, busted. I had to walk in, fifty miles; but I’ve earned just enough to take me through to the Missouri.” “How?” asked Davy. “Sweeping out for one of the gambling houses,” and with a gesture of disgust the slender youngster turned away. Mr. Baxter watched him a moment. “Davy,” he uttered, “that’s no boy. That’s a girl. Great Scott! What a place for a girl!” And later they found out that Mr. Baxter had spoken the truth. They were glad to learn that the pretended boy took the next stage back to Leavenworth and reached there safely. “Let’s try our luck at the post-office,” proposed Mr. Baxter. “I’d like to get a letter, myself.” They threaded their way in the direction of the office. The mail had recently come in, for from the post-office window a line of men, single file, extended over a block. However, before they two took their places Billy Cody stopped them. “I asked for your mail,” he announced. “There wasn’t any. I got a letter from ma. All she said was: ‘Dear Will. Let us know how you are. We are well. Mother.’ And I had to pay fifty cents for it down from Laramie. The new stage line carries letters for twenty-five cents. Wish ma had written more for the money. She might just as well.” “What’s the news, Billy? What are you and the rest of the outfit going to do?”