Prominent among those in whom this suspicion had ripened into a steadfast conviction was Mr. Brentshaw.  At all seasonable and unseasonable times Mr. Brentshaw avowed his belief in Mr. Gilson’s connection with these unholy midnight enterprises, and his own willingness to prepare a way for the solar beams through the body of any one who might think it expedient to utter a different opinion—­which, in his presence, no one was more careful not to do than the peace-loving person most concerned.  Whatever may have been the truth of the matter, it is certain that Gilson frequently lost more “clean dust” at Jo.  Bentley’s faro table than it was recorded in local history that he had ever honestly earned at draw poker in all the days of the camp’s existence.  But at last Mr. Bentley—­fearing, it may be, to lose the more profitable patronage of Mr. Brentshaw—­peremptorily refused to let Gilson copper the queen, intimating at the same time, in his frank, forthright way, that the privilege of losing money at “this bank” was a blessing appertaining to, proceeding logically from, and coterminous with, a condition of notorious commercial righteousness and social good repute.

The Hill thought it high time to look after a person whom its most honored citizen had felt it his duty to rebuke at a considerable personal sacrifice.  The New Jerusalem contingent, particularly, began to abate something of the toleration begotten of amusement at their own blunder in exiling an objectionable neighbor from the place which they had left to the place whither they had come.  Mammon Hill was at last of one mind.  Not much was said, but that Gilson must hang was “in the air.”  But at this critical juncture in his affairs he showed signs of an altered life if not a changed heart.  Perhaps it was only that “the bank” being closed against him he had no further use for gold dust.  Anyhow the sluice boxes were molested no more forever.  But it was impossible to repress the abounding energies of such a nature as his, and he continued, possibly from habit, the tortuous courses which he had pursued for profit of Mr. Bentley.  After a few tentative and resultless undertakings in the way of highway robbery—­if one may venture to designate road-agency by so harsh a name—­he made one or two modest essays in horse-herding, and it was in the midst of a promising enterprise of this character, and just as he had taken the tide in his affairs at its flood, that he made shipwreck.  For on a misty, moonlight night Mr. Brentshaw rode up alongside a person who was evidently leaving that part of the country, laid a hand upon the halter connecting Mr. Gilson’s wrist with Mr. Harper’s bay mare, tapped him familiarly on the cheek with the barrel of a navy revolver and requested the pleasure of his company in a direction opposite to that in which he was traveling.

It was indeed rough on Gilson.