“She has a venereal disease,” Charlie said. “There’s no law I know of against that....” “All right. Charge her with pollution. She got drunk and fell into the spring.” Then Charlie called up the Judge and suggested Rosie have a year’s vacation in the county jail. The paths that radiated from Rosie’s shack in the brush like spokes from the hub of a wheel, were soon overgrown with salt grass. She served her sentence and returned to Shoshone and the paths were soon beaten smooth again. Eventually Brown declared Shoshone out of bounds for Rosie and she moved over into Nevada. There she found a lover of her tribe and one night when both were drunk, Rosie decided she’d had enough of him and with a big, sharp knife she calmly disemboweled him—for which unladylike incident she was removed to a Nevada prison where the state cured her syphilis and turned her loose—if not morally reformed, at least physically fit. One of Rosie’s patrons was a man thought to be in his middle fifties. Always carefully groomed, his white shirts, spotless ties, and tailored suits were conspicuous in a place where levis were the rule. He was also a total abstainer. When he died suddenly and it was learned he was 82 years old, Shoshone gasped. An item in his will read: “To Rosie, $50 to buy whiskey.” Living in a wickiup in the mesquite was the Indian, Tom Weed, who shared with his squaw a passion for liquor. Sober, Tom was industrious in the Indian way. He knew the country, when and where the mountain sheep were fattest; the herbs that cured and the best grasses for the beautiful baskets woven by his wife. Tom filed on a deposit of non-metallic ore near Shoshone and forgot it. A subsequent locater found a buyer. Considerable capital was to be invested and the purchaser decided that Tom, if so disposed, could at least challenge the title. In order to dispose of Tom he sent the document to Dad Fairbanks together with a check payable to Tom for $1000 and asked Dad to get a quit claim deed from Tom. Since $1000 was more than Tom ever expected to see in his life he was eager to sign. “You cash check?” he asked Dad. “Sure,” Dad told him. As Dad was getting the money he said, “Tom, long winter ahead. Hard to get work. Don’t you think you’d better leave money with me? Might come in handy.” Dad saw that Tom was impressed and added: “You told me yesterday you were going over to Las Vegas. That’s another good reason. Think it over.” “Okay. Me think.” Tom stood for a long moment staring at the floor, studying every angle of the problem. Finally he thrust his palm at Dad and said gravely: “Might die....” Dad gave him the money and Tom went to Las Vegas. In an hour he was drunk. In three he was broke and in jail.