Adventure Magazine Cover — page 87: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Lost Diggings As sheriff I won’t let any one take the mare by force. If the matter’s carried into court Curks will stand firm for his friends. Pat- terson played it low down. He knows how the game works and he skinned Bill by playing a low figure. When he done that he was skinning me. If he wants to play any of those games let him do it where he sleeps, in Idaho City. It proves what I’ve always told the men; let me do the planning and dickering. Get the price from Patterson, then find Bill and send him up here. He'll be at the Tusk.” At about the time Swanger was locating Sydney Bill—so called because he had been a leader of Sydney Town in San Francisco, and an Australian convict before that— Shoshoni Hale came down the main street of the town, his grayish-green eyes roaming from side to side in search of some trace of his property. On the outskirts of the town he had inspected several small horse corrals and had satisfied himself the mare was either in the town or on the road to Salt Lake City, or California. A group of loafers before a stable raised a laugh at his elkskin trousers and moccasins. This, not that the garb was a rarity but because of a vicious desire to deride and pick a quarrel. Not heeding them, he plodded up the street until arriving at the Tusk. Here he halted and mopped his dripping face and curiosly eyed the nine-foot tusk mounted on a block of white-oak. It measured nine inches through at the base and once was worn by some prehistoric monster. It had been found by a prospector on Rabbit Creek, ten miles from the Snake, and labor- iously brought to town to serve as a sign for the saloon and gambling-hell. The Tusk was a long structure with a bar along one wall and the floor given over to gaming-tables. Men were pouring in to cool their blood with ficry potations. Men were emerging, too stupid to find a bit of shade. fae) HALE brushed back his long hair 12 Ly and entered. The bar was well- =— filled, with a drunken miner the center of attraction. This fellow, dressed in rags, with trousers fashioned from flour bags, with his toes protruding through his. broken boots, was spending gold dust and nuggets with the freedom of a man of mil- lions. Those who pressed close about him 77 were looking beyond the gold he had with him. They were feverish to learn where his diggings were located. Hale worked his way close to the group and called for whisky. He drank slowly and kept a curious eye on the drunken miner and men fencing him in to the bar. “You don’t know where you got it,” taunted one man. “T don’t, huh?” mocked the miner. ‘“‘See green in my eye? Think I’m drunk, don’t ye? Wal, I be. An’ I know where there’s enough of this yaller dirt to keep me drunk for a million years. Yee-ouw-w/ Every one take a touch of p’izen on ‘Lucky Tom’ of Lost Gulch. Huh? Where’s Lost Gulch? Where I git the dust, you fool.”’ Significant looks were exchanged. A whisper ran from the bar around behind the miner to the bar again. Then one of the men declared: “Vou’re a stranger to us. You’re spend- ing your dust right handsome. It does you proud. But how do we know it ain’t counterfeit, just zinc and copper? They’ve been hanging folks around here on just a suspicion of counterfeiting dust. You ain’t known round here except by a few. You come in and tell yarns about striking a bonanza. There’ll be some ugly talk; then some one will act rash, and you'll be through with drinking and your Lost Gulch. Now you know we’re your friends, Tom. Tell us where you made your strike. Or go and file on your discovery claim; then no one can jump it. You know the law allows you to hold one creek, one bar, and one hill claim. But if you don’t file you’ll wind up by holding nothing.” “You talk like you was drunk,” answered the miner, and he smiled broadly. ‘Never entered your noodle that an assayer can soon tell you if my dust is the real article or not, huh? Or did you folks think I was so drunk I wouldn’t think of it? First, I’m going to swing for counterfeiting dust; next I’m going to have my claim jumped if I don’t file and let the whole basin know where it is. “Mister, that placer belongs tome. Men up in Oro Fino are making fifty dollars a day pounding up rock in a common hand mortar. But I can take out five hundred dol- lars a day and keep it up for years. There’s bushels of: it in the gravel beds of Lost Gulch. That’s my name for it—just Lost Gulch. Counterfeit dust, huh? How about this? Just tickle your peepers with this.” COIN DOOKS © iin