Old Hawkins first discovered gold here. Price tells of the pickle-jars full he had buried under the floor of his cabin. The secret could not be kept. They came trooping down the steep Red Mountain trail, blankets and tools on their backs, footsore, weary, thirsty, hungry--but hungrier still for gold. They put up tents and brush houses, or crept, slept and cooked under projecting rocks; they stood all day in ice-cold water; they overworked bodies hitherto unused to manual labor; they blistered delicate hands; they lived on bacon and heavy bread of their own making; they drank raw whiskey by the quart; they died, and were buried almost where they died, in nameless graves. Up yonder, but a few yards in the rear of Price’s cabin, is the old camp graveyard. The fence is rotting away and stands at various angles. The inscriptions on the headboards are half effaced by time and the elements. Some are split and have fallen down. Read “Jacob Peiser, æt. 27.” He died close by in the gulch hard by, with a pistol-bullet through him. A dispute over a claim. “Samuel Purdy, 31.” Drowned trying to cross the river during a freshet. “John Wilkins, æt. 35.” Killed by a cave in the bank claim about a hundred yards away. “Samuel Johnson, æt. 25.” He dove with a sand bag to stop a great leak in the Ford Chann’s head wall, and he stopped the leak in part with his own body, for the stream sucked him in the crevice and he never came up alive. “John Weddell, 35.” Blown up by the premature explosion of a blast in the Split Rock quartz claim. “Abram Hewison, 45.” Delirium tremens, stark mad at midnight, jumped into the river from the point yonder, where the stream whirls round the bend with tremendous force and then rushes down toward the long deep cañon a mile away in a succession of great white crested billows, whose sad, never-ceasing murmur seems an eternal requiem for those lying here. Price has seen all this. That was the climax of his life. Price’s heaven is not in the future. It is in the past. It is embraced in a period about twenty-five years ago, when he made “an ounce per day.” Those, he remarks, were times worth living for. Eight hundred souls then at Hawkins’; five gambling houses in full blast every night; music, dancing, and fandangos at either end of the bar.