“So the Gov’rment hev at last woke up and wiped out them cussed Digger Minyos,” said Snapshot Harry, as he laid down the newspaper, in the brand-new saloon of the brand-new town of Redwood. “I see they’ve stampeded both banks of the Minyo River, and sent off a lot to the reservation. I reckon the soldiers at Fort Cass got sick o’ sentiment after those hounds killed the Injun agent, and are beginning to agree with us that the only ‘good Injun’ is a dead one.”

“And it turns out that that wonderful chief, that them two packers used to rave about, woz about as big a devil ez any, and tried to run off with the agent’s wife, only the warriors killed her. I’d like to know what become of him. Some says he was killed, others allow that he got away. I’ve heerd tell that he was originally some kind of Methodist preacher!—a kind o’ saint that got a sort o’ spiritooal holt on the old squaws and children.”

“Why don’t you ask old Skeesicks? I see he’s back here ag’in—and grubbin’ along at a dollar a day on tailin’s. He’s been somewhere up north, they say.”

“What, Skeesicks? that shiftless, o’n’ry cuss! You bet he wusn’t anywhere where there was danger of fighting. Why, you might as well hev suspected HIM of being the big chief himself! There he comes—ask him.”

And the laughter was so general that Elijah Martin—alias Skeesicks—lounging shyly into the bar-room, joined in it weakly.