"We hed a fight over the diggin's an' I was the only one left. I'll tell
you...." Whereupon Wade sat down on a box, removed his old sombrero, and
began to talk. An idler sauntered over, attracted by something. Then a
miner happened by to halt and join the group.

Next, old Kemp, the patriarch of the village, came and listened
attentively. Wade seemed to have a strange magnetism, a magic tongue.

He was small of stature, but wiry and muscular. His garments were old,
soiled, worn. When he removed the wide-brimmed sombrero he exposed a
remarkable face. It was smooth except for a drooping mustache, and
pallid, with drops of sweat standing out on the high, broad forehead;
gaunt and hollow-cheeked, with an enormous nose, and cavernous eyes set
deep under shaggy brows. These features, however, were not so striking
in themselves. Long, sloping, almost invisible lines of pain, the shadow
of mystery and gloom in the deep-set, dark eyes, a sad harmony between
features and expression, these marked the man's face with a record no
keen eye could miss.

Wade told a terrible tale of gold and blood and death. It seemed to
relieve him. His face changed, and lost what might have been called its
tragic light, its driven intensity.

His listeners shook their heads in awe. Hard tales were common in
Colorado, but this one was exceptional. Two of the group left without
comment. Old Kemp stared with narrow, half-recognizing eyes at the
new-comer.

"Wal! Wal!" ejaculated the innkeeper. "It do beat hell what can