At the bottom of the street we kissed and I stood there watching my young husband as he drove off up the road toward Nevadaville. All around were crowds of men intent on their business, driving heavy ore-wagons whose teams lurched with the weight and whose brakes screeched on the steep grades. Others were loading ore cars with waste and dumping them off the end of little tracks laid out on high hillocks jutting precariously into the blue sky. The steady rhythm of pumps and the whir of steam hoists resounded from each hill. You could even hear the narrow gauge railroad whistle at Blackhawk shrieking its demoniac energy while bringing in machinery, huge and unwieldy, for the hoists of mine shafts, for the stamp mills crunching ore, and a hundred other purposes. Near its track at many points were sluice boxes carrying water back to the creek after being denuded of its placer wealth. Everywhere were serious men busy making money. Gold was king! The main street was crowded with women going to market on foot, carpet bags or carry-alls slung on their arm for supplies, some of them leading burros to pack their purchases. Most of the bars were open and men, off work at the mines, idled in and out or lounged briefly in the strangely bright Colorado sunshine of this mild day. Others were to be seen on doorsteps, chewing tobacco, chatting or whittling on an old wheel spoke. The banks were open for business and cashiers from the mines were taking in gold dust, nuggets and retorts to be weighed. It did not seem possible that among all this hustle and industry there would be no place for us. “Hello, there, Baby! Want a ride?” I raised my eyes. Two dashing young men, quite well dressed, expensive Stetsons on their heads, were in a gig that trotted past. They looked like mining engineers or mill managers. I couldn’t help smiling at their handsome, good-humored appearance, and one of them swept off his Stetson and bowed low. The other, with the reins, pulled up the horse. “You’re much too pretty and young to be standing alone on a street corner,” he said. “And you’re too fresh! I’ve just been seeing my husband off to his mine, thank you,” I replied as I flounced around and started up the hill with a great show of indignation and temper. Actually, I was quite flattered. “When did you come to camp?” he called, paying no attention to my attitude and slapping his horse with the reins to follow along beside me on the board walk. I did not reply but kept on climbing steadily as fast as I could go up Spring Street, puffing for wind in the high altitude. “Oh, leave her alone, Slim—she’s a nice girl. Come on, I want to get down to the post office.” “Hell, all right. Well, good-bye, Baby—you better tell your husband to watch out or big bad men will be after you.”