“So you’re Baby Doe!” one of the merry men with bold eyes reflected. “I hear the manager of my mill tried to pick you up in the street one day, and you snubbed him!” He laughed as though greatly amused. “I am Mrs. Harvey Doe, if you please. My husband is out of town on business.” “Well, you’re Baby Doe to all the miners in camp! They all know you—your beauty’s enough to advertise you, even if you didn’t spend so danged much time walking all over the place. They’ve also told me how unfriendly you are.” “I’m not unfriendly. I’m delighted to meet people if they are properly introduced—” “What are you doing here then? This is no place for a nice girl.” “I know it. But I’m so lonely that my good friend, Mr. Sandelowsky, offered to watch out for me if I came.” Baby Doe I was from that night on—and nearly every night I was at the Shoo-Fly under Jake’s protection. It was lively and gay and I made lots of friends among the men and girls who frequented the place. As I got to know these sporting girls, I liked them much better than the girls I had known in Oshkosh. They weren’t very well educated, but they had a great zest for living. Their generosity was genuine—their courage tremendous. None of the girls at home possessed such qualities. I really felt I understood them and when they seemed to like me, I knew they really did. That meant a great deal to a lonely girl. “Why don’t you get rid of that mama’s-boy husband of yours? Why, with your looks, you could get any man you wanted!” one of them said to me. Most of the talk at the Shoo-Fly that summer and autumn was about the sensational rise of silver and Leadville and Horace Tabor. It was like a fairy tale. For years, placer miners at the head of the Arkansas River had been irritated by peculiar black sand which was very heavy and could not be separated from the gold easily. A decade passed without their recognizing its true worth but during the ’70s several miners worked on secret assays which proved the sand was eroding from carbonates of lead and silver ore. Quietly they began to look for veins and by 1877, after several mines had been located, the news was out. A mad rush was on and many an odd fluke of luck followed. The veins did not outcrop on the surface. This made it possible for a prospector to start sinking a shaft almost anywhere and hit an ore body from a few feet to three hundred and fifty feet beneath the surface. That fact created some fantastic and astonishing fortunes. Living in this locality for a number of years had been Horace Tabor, a middle-aged storekeeper. He and his wife were New Englanders who had come West in the first wild gold rush of ’59 and after failing to make any money out of mining despite repeated attempts, had dismissed the gold bug from their heads. They had settled down with their one son, Maxcy, now grown, to a steady respectable middle-class life at Oro City, three miles from the site of what was later to be Leadville.