"I once reckoned," said he, "that we ’d be ornamenting a telegraph pole in Baker City with you, but now I reckon we will see you sheriff of Carson City, sure." Apache Kid took the proffered hand and shook it; but he showed me deeper into himself again when he said in a dry voice: "I don’t think, Sheriff, that there will be any real need for you to congratulate me any oftener than you have done already, on finding out further mistakes you have made in your attempts to discover my real character." And so saying we went out; and as I shook the sheriff’s hand I noticed that he took mine absently. I think he was pondering what my friend had said. "One grows weary of patronage," said Apache Kid to me as we plodded along the deserted streets to the bank. "Deserted streets?" you say. Yes, deserted. For an "excitement" had sprung up at Tremont during my ten days in bed. As we passed the hotels on our way to the bank, the hotels that had always been thronged and full of voices, the doors always on the swing, we saw now on the verandah of each of them one solitary man, with chair tilted back and feet in the rail. These were the worthy proprietors, each figuring on the chances of Baker City booming again, each wondering if he should follow the rush. As we passed the corner of the street in which "Blaine’s joint" had stood, I noticed above the door and window a strip of wood less sun-scorched than the rest. That was where the famous canvas sign had been, rolled up now and carted off with the coffee-urn to this other "city" that had depopulated Baker City. The stores, of course, were still open; for the city which is centre for five paying mines can never die. It may not always _boom_, with megaphones in every window and cigar smoke curling in the streets, but it will not _languish_. Still, it was not the Baker City that I knew of yore, and as we entered the door of the bank, carrying our bullion, it struck me that the stage-setting was just in keeping with the part we played; for as Apache Kid had said—when we knew our wealth the adventure would be over. This was the last Act, Scene I. And I felt a quiver in my heart when the thought intruded itself, even then, that Scene II (and last) would be a farewell to Apache Kid. Slowly the teller in the bank weighed out our nuggets, scanning us between each weighing over his gold-rimmed glasses and noting down the amounts on his writing pad. "Grand total," said he, and paused to awaken the thrill of suspense, "forty thousand dollars." "Forty thousand dollars," thought I, "and fifteen hundred in notes, that makes forty-one thousand five hundred." "A mere flea-bite," Apache said. "I beg your pardon?" said the teller, astonished. "A mere flea-bite," repeated Apache Kid. "Look at that," and he held up a turquoise in his fingers. "Don’t you think a man would give forty-one thousand five hundred for a bagful of these?" "A bagful?" said the teller. Apache nodded.