such expenses, must be a profitable business in San

Francisco.
I give these two versions as I got them. But I place little

reliance on either, my belief in history having been greatly
shaken. For it chanced that I had come to dwell in Silverado

at a critical hour; great events in its history were about to
happen - did happen, as I am led to believe; nay, and it will

be seen that I played a part in that revolution myself. And
yet from first to last I never had a glimmer of an idea what

was going on; and even now, after full reflection, profess
myself at sea. That there was some obscure intrigue of the

cigar-box order, and that I, in the character of a wooden
puppet, set pen to paper in the interest of somebody, so

much, and no more, is certain.
Silverado, then under my immediate sway, belonged to one whom

I will call a Mr. Ronalds. I only knew him through the
extraordinarily distorting medium of local gossip, now as a

momentous jobber; now as a dupe to point an adage; and again,
and much more probably, as an ordinary Christian gentleman

like you or me, who had opened a mine and worked it for a
while with better and worse fortune. So, through a defective

window-pane, you may see the passer-by shoot up into a
hunchbacked giant or dwindle into a potbellied dwarf.

To Ronalds, at least, the mine belonged; but the notice by
which he held it would ran out upon the 30th of June - or

rather, as I suppose, it had run out already, and the month
of grace would expire upon that day, after which any American

citizen might post a notice of his own, and make Silverado
his. This, with a sort of quiet slyness, Rufe told me at an

early period of our acquaintance. There was no silver, of
course; the mine "wasn't worth nothing, Mr. Stevens," but

there was a deal of old iron and wood around, and to gain
possession of this old wood and iron, and get a right to the

water, Rufe proposed, if I had no objections, to "jump the
claim."

Of course, I had no objection. But I was filled with wonder.
If all he wanted was the wood and iron, what, in the name of

fortune, was to prevent him taking them? "His right there
was none to dispute." He might lay hands on all to-morrow,

as the wild cats had laid hands upon our knives and hatchet.
Besides, was this mass of heavy mining plant worth

transportation? If it was, why had not the rightful owners
carted it away? If it was, would they not preserve their

title to these movables, even after they had lost their title
to the mine? And if it were not, what the better was Rufe?

Nothing would grow at Silverado; there was even no wood to
cut; beyond a sense of property, there was nothing to be

gained. Lastly, was it at all credible that Ronalds would
forget what Rufe remembered? The days of grace were not yet

over: any fine morning he might appear, paper in hand, and
enter for another year on his inheritance. However, it was

none of my business; all seemed legal; Rufe or Ronalds, all
was one to me.

On the morning of the 27th, Mrs. Hanson appeared with the
milk as usual, in her sun-bonnet. The time would be out on

Tuesday, she reminded us, and bade me be in readiness to play
my part, though I had no idea what it was to be. And suppose

Ronalds came? we asked. She received the idea with derision,
laughing aloud with all her fine teeth. He could not find

the mine to save his life, it appeared, without Rufe to guide
him. Last year, when he came, they heard him "up and down

the road a hollerin' and a raisin' Cain." And at last he had
to come to the Hansons in despair, and bid Rufe, "Jump into

your pants and shoes, and show me where this old mine is,
anyway!" Seeing that Ronalds had laid out so much money in

the spot, and that a beaten road led right up to the bottom
of the clump, I thought this a remarkable example. The sense

of locality must be singularly in abeyance in the case of
Ronalds.

That same evening, supper comfortably over, Joe Strong busy
at work on a drawing of the dump and the opposite hills, we

were all out on the platform together, sitting there, under
the tented heavens, with the same sense of privacy as if we

had been cabined in a parlour, when the sound of brisk
footsteps came mounting up the path. We pricked our ears at

this, for the tread seemed lighter and firmer than was usual
with our country neighbours. And presently, sure enough, two

town gentlemen, with cigars and kid gloves, came debauching
past the house. They looked in that place like a blasphemy.

"Good evening," they said. For none of us had stirred; we
all sat stiff with wonder.

"Good evening," I returned; and then, to put them at their
ease, "A stiff climb," I added.

"Yes," replied the leader; "but we have to thank you for this
path."

I did not like the man's tone. None of us liked it. He did
not seem embarrassed by the meeting, but threw us his remarks

like favours, and strode magisterially by us towards the
shaft and tunnel.

Presently we heard his voice raised to his companion. "We
drifted every sort of way, but couldn't strike the ledge."

Then again: "It pinched out here." And once more: "Every
minor that ever worked upon it says there's bound to be a

ledge somewhere."
These were the snatches of his talk that reached us, and they

had a damning significance. We, the lords of Silverado, had
come face to face with our superior. It is the worst of all

quaint and of all cheap ways of life that they bring us at
last to the pinch of some humiliation. I liked well enough

to be a squatter when there was none but Hanson by; before
Ronalds, I will own, I somewhat quailed. I hastened to do

him fealty, said I gathered he was the Squattee, and
apologized. He threatened me with ejection, in a manner

grimly pleasant - more pleasant to him, I fancy, than to me;
and then he passed off into praises of the former state of

Silverado. "It was the busiest little mining town you ever
saw:" a population of between a thousand and fifteen hundred

souls, the engine in full blast, the mill newly erected;
nothing going but champagne, and hope the order of the day.

Ninety thousand dollars came out; a hundred and forty
thousand were put in, making a net loss of fifty thousand.

The last days, I gathered, the days of John Stanley, were not
so bright; the champagne had ceased to flow, the population

was already moving elsewhere, and Silverado had begun to
wither in the branch before it was cut at the root. The last

shot that was fired knocked over the stove chimney, and made
that hole in the roof of our barrack, through which the sun

was wont to visit slug-a-beds towards afternoon. A noisy,
last shot, to inaugurate the days of silence.

Throughout this interview, my conscience was a good deal
exercised; and I was moved to throw myself on my knees and

own the intended treachery. But then I had Hanson to
consider. I was in much the same position as Old Rowley,

that royal humourist, whom "the rogue had taken into his
confidence." And again, here was Ronalds on the spot. He