And, incidentally, I might say my father had some terrifying experience with that killer, the panther. He was walking through the dark woods in his native Tennessee, nearing his home, when a night prowler fell in behind him, coming so close that he could feel the animal’s breath on his swinging hands, and he thought nothing of it—just then. Likely one of his dogs come to meet him. But in the yard, he could see by the light of the lamp in the window, which my mother was always careful to put there to show him that he would not be trespassing on the home of a wicked woman living in a lonely cabin in the nearby deep wood—a witch, they called her; but there was suspicion that she was more than that to some of the menfolk—he could see that his trailer was a panther. It had feasted on the offals from the day’s hog-killing, or butchering—and, with a bellyful, was in a rather composed mood. Not so my Dad. Did he run? He did not. He had learned from old hunters to not show fright when in a tight spot with that ugly animal. However, he said his stimulated mind reached the door about twenty “shakes of a sheep’s tail” ahead of his paralyzed legs. Uncle Nick’s recounted experiences with the lions were enough to fire the hunting blood in his young nephew. Later, however, the nephew going over the same ground said to himself, “To hell with the lions—me for the gold!” The contagion had gotten me. Recounting the great wealth of the five major placers, I “cussed” myself—mildly, of course — for not having been born earlier. Too late for the placers, and thoroughly imbued with the idea, I took a dip at hard-rock mining—and, paradoxically, “cussed” myself again. Less mildly, however. Ah, that delving for gold—it is a dramatic game, a business wherein the element of chance runs rampant and the imagination is given unbridled play. Bedeviled by Indians and highwaymen, there were perils and hardships in travel along the Overland Trail in those days—but nothing, absolutely nothing, slowed up the westward march. The race to acquire new wealth was on! “Pike’s Peak, or Bust,” was the slogan! In swinging up through Nebraska the Old Trail made a wide rainbow circle to reach Denver. There was literally “a pot of gold” at the end of the rainbow! Gold, glittering yellow gold! Nothing else in the wide world has ever stirred men more deeply, driven them to greater tests of endurance, or robbed them more swiftly of reason. Still, gold changed the whole history of the country. It sent a mighty migration of people across the continent, built a trans-continental railroad, and established an American empire on the Pacific coast. And gold—magic gold — was the life-stream of the old Overland Trail!