“Maurice had a good seat; he’d never be washed off.” “Not he.” “The horse has a weal on its off fore-quarter,” remarked another, more observant than the rest. “A blow from a whip, maybe.” “It would be a darned hard one.” “Where’s Chicago Bill?” said someone; “he’ll know.” Thus invoked, a strange, gaunt figure stepped out in front of the crowd. He was an extremely tall and powerful man, with the red shirt and high boots of a miner. The shirt was thrown open, showing the sinewy throat and massive chest. His face was seamed and scarred with many a conflict, both with Nature and his brother man; yet beneath his ruffianly exterior there lay something of the quiet dignity of the gentleman. This man was a veteran gold-hunter; a real old Californian ’forty-niner, who had left the fields in disgust when private enterprise began to dwindle before the formation of huge incorporated companies with their ponderous machinery. But the red clay with the little shining points had become to him as the very breath of his nostrils, and he had come half way round the world to seek it once again. “Here’s Chicago Bill,” he said; “what is it?” Bill was naturally regarded as an oracle, in virtue of his prowess and varied experience. Every eye was turned on him as Braxton, the young Irish trooper of constabulary, said, “What do you make of the horse, Bill?” The Yankee was in no hurry to commit himself. He surveyed the animal for some time with his shrewd little gray eye. He bent and examined the girths; then he felt the mane carefully. He stooped once more and examined the hoofs and then the quarters. His eye rested on the blue weal already mentioned. This seemed to put him on a scent, for he gave a long, low whistle, and proceeded at once to examine the hair on either side of the saddle. He saw something conclusive apparently, for, with a sidelong glance under his shaggy eyebrows at the two old men beside him, he turned and fell back among the crowd. “Well, what d’ye think?” cried a dozen voices. “A job for you,” said Bill, looking up at the young Irish trooper. “Why, what is it? What’s become of young Broadhurst?” “He’s done what better men has done afore. He has sunk a shaft for gold and panned out a coffin.” “Speak out, man! what have you seen?” cried a husky voice. “I’ve seen the graze of a bushranger’s bullet on the horse’s quarter, an’ I’ve seen a drop of the rider’s blood on the edge of the saddle-- Here, hold the old man up, boys; don’t let him drop. Give him a swig of brandy an’ lead him inside. Say,” he continued, in a whisper, gripping the trooper by the wrist, “mind, I’m in it. You an’ I play this hand together. I’m dead on sich varmin. We’ll do as they do in Nevada, strike while the iron is hot. Get any men you can together. I s’pose you’re game to come yourself?” “Yes, I’ll come,” said young Braxton, with a quiet smile.