Many-terraced as a Cornish village, Bisbee straddles a canyon and climbs two mountains in its effort to accommodate the workers who swarm its tortuous streets, and spend their days in its huge copper mines. When Bisbee finds a mountain in its way, down goes the mountain, carried off by great steam shovels working day and night. But always beyond, another ring of hills holds her prisoner. In the town’s center lies a tiny, shut-in square into which streets of various levels trickle. Here at any day or any hour, agitators of one sort or another violently harangue small groups. There is always at this spot an air of unexploded tenseness. No wonder! Precious minerals imprisoned by Nature,--machinery fighting Mother Earth,--labor resisting capital,--conservatism against lawless radicalism,--greed against greed,--all braced to hold their own and push the other down; all pent in by the enclosing hills, and pressed down to the narrow confines of the little Plaza. No wonder the steam from these conflicting forces has at times blown the lid into the air. From this Plaza, during the war, gathered the citizens of Bisbee, and escorted to the Mexican border certain obstructionists claiming to be striking in the cause of labor. The suddenness of their taking off has been criticized, but its effectiveness was admirable. In the informality of the grim-purposed patriots who acted as body-guards on that dusty march south, one sees the old West, which emerged into law and order through similar bands of exasperated citizens.