"The new State of Jefferson--the future new state. Things move fast out here. A convention was held last month by the miners, to organize for another convention on June 8 when a state constitution will be adopted and sent to Congress. Some people wanted the state named Pike's Peak. You'll see the convention call in the _Rocky Mountain News_. Ah----!" and Mr. Villard gazed aside. "There's a man I ought to talk with. Good-bye; meet you later, I hope." "I don't believe we'll wait for that convention," proposed Harry. "And I don't believe we ought to put in much time hunting for your father's mine. We'll get right into the new diggin's before every spot's taken." Harry evidently was catching the fever. "First, though----" "Paper? _Rocky Mountain News!_ Fresh off the press! Buy a paper, Mister? Tell you all about the latest strikes, and where to go." He was a very slim, tall young man whose trousers were finished off below the knees with gunny sacking, in order to cover his long legs. "Yes. Let me have one," responded Harry. And added, to Terry, while handing out a dime: "That'll give us the quickest information." The tall slim young man was turning the dime over and over in his palm. "No good," he said. "Nothing less than a quarter goes, out here." "But they told us picks and spades are fifteen cents." "In trade, maybe. But these papers are a quarter, Mister. Two bits. That's the smallest change in camp. Dust or coin." "Hum!" grunted Harry, producing a quarter. He scratched his nose as he glanced at the paper. "At this rate we'll soon be busted." The paper was entitled "_Rocky Mountain News_, Cherry Creek, K. T."--the initials standing, of course, for Kansas Territory. W. N. Byers was proprietor. It was printed on a coarse brownish paper--seemed to be full of items about gold being brought in from "gulches"--a number of advertisements and announcements--had the convention call-- "We'll read it in camp," quoth Harry. "Gwan, Duke! Jenny! Haw!" "Want to sell that buffalo, stranger?" interrupted another voice. This man was a square, stubbly faced, red-faced and red-haired individual, in a faded cotton shirt and old army trousers belted at the waist with a rope. "Why--I don't know," replied Harry, reflectively, scratching his nose. The man walked around Duke, scrutinizing him. "He's got a buckskin patch on. We'd better watch out," whispered Terry, to his partner. So he had: the whole seat of his trousers was buckskin coarsely stitched in place. "Half the men in camp have buckskin or other patches," chuckled Harry. "That gives me an idea." "Offer you $25, dust, stranger," abruptly spoke the man. "He's lame. You can't use him. He'll be no good in the diggin's." "What'll you do with him, then?" questioned Harry. "Put him in my show. He won't have to work. And he's too tough for butchering. But he'll be all right on exhibition." "Hum!" mused Harry. "My partner and I'll talk it over. We're going to camp over night before going on."