Strictly speaking they were wrong, but they won all the money that had been staked against them; for within half an hour’s time there passed over the same road an anxious-looking individual, who reined up in front of the principal saloon of each place, and asked if the colonel had passed. Had the gallant colonel known that he was followed, and by whom, there would have been an extra election held at the latter place very shortly after, for the colonel’s pursuer was no other than the constable of Challenge Hill, and for constables and all other officers of the law the colonel possessed hatred of unspeakable intensity. On galloped the colonel, following the stage-road, which threaded the old mining camps on Duck Creek; but suddenly he turned abruptly out of the road, and urged his horse through the young pines and bushes, which grew thickly by the road, while the constable galloped rapidly on to the next camp. There seemed to be no path through the thicket into which the colonel had turned, but Tipsie walked between trees and bushes as if they were but the familiar objects of her own stable-yard. Suddenly a voice from the bushes shouted: “What’s up?” “Business—_that’s_ what,” replied the colonel. “It’s time,” replied the voice, and its owner—a bearded six-footer—emerged from the bushes, and stroked Tipsie’s nose with the freedom of an old acquaintance. “We hain’t had a nip sence last night, an’ thar’ ain’t a cracker or a handful of flour in the shanty. The old gal go back on yer?” “Yes,” replied the colonel, ruefully—“lost ev’ry blasted race. ’Twasn’t _her_ fault, bless her—she done her level best. Ev’rybody to home?” “You bet,” said the man. “All ben a-prayin’ for yer to turn up with the rocks, an’ somethin’ with more color than spring water. Come on.” The man led the way, and Tipsie and the colonel followed, and the trio suddenly found themselves before a small log hut, in front of which sat three solemn, disconsolate-looking individuals, who looked appealingly at the colonel. “Mac’ll tell yer how ’twas, fellers,” said the colonel, meekly, “while I picket the mare.” The colonel was absent but a very few moments, but when he returned each of the four men was attired in pistols and knives, while Mac was distributing some dominoes, made from a rather dirty flour-bag. “’Tain’t so late as all that, is it?” inquired the colonel. “Better be an hour ahead than miss it this ‘_ere_ night,” said one of the four. “I ain’t been so thirsty sence I come round the Horn, in ‘50, an’ we run short of water. _Somebody_’ll get hurt ef thar’ ain’t no bitters on the old concern—they will, or my name ain’t Perkins.” “Don’t count yer chickings ’fore they’re hetched, Perky,” said one of the party, as he adjusted his domino under the rim of his hat. “‘S’posin’ ther’ shud be too many for us?” “Stiddy, Cranks!” remonstrated the colonel. “Nobody ever gets along ef they ’low ’emselves to be skeered.”