“Stranger,” said he, “mout you be able to make head er tail of all that air?”

The other shook his head.

“I’m plumb distracted to know what to do; and dear knows we all want to git shet of this job.  Thar’s a badger fight——­”

“Where is this claim, anyway?”

“Right adown the road.  Location notice is on the first white oak you come to.  Cain’t miss her.”

“If I were you,” said the stranger after a pause, “I’d just declare the claim vacant.  Then neither side would win.”

At this moment the jury rose to retire again.  The stranger unobtrusively gained the attention of the clerk and from him begged a sheet of paper.  On this he wrote rapidly, then folded it, and moved to the outer door, against the jamb of which he took his position.  After another and shorter wait, the jury returned.

“Have you agreed on your verdict, gentlemen?” inquired the judge.

“We have,” replied the lank foreman.  “We award that the claim belongs to neither and be declared vacant.”

At the words the stranger in the doorway disappeared.  Two minutes later the advance guard of the rush that had comprehended the true meaning of the verdict found the white oak tree in possession of a competent individual with a Colt’s revolving pistol and a humorous eye.

“My location notice, gentlemen,” he said, calling attention to a paper freshly attached by wooden pegs.

“Honey-bug claim’,” they read, “’John Gates’,” and the usual phraseology.

“But this is a swindle, an outrage!” cried one of the erstwhile owners.

“If so it was perpetrated by your own courts,” said Gates, crisply.  “I am within my rights, and I propose to defend them.”

Thus John Gates and his wife, now strong and hearty, became members of this community.  His intention had been to proceed to Sacramento.  An incident stopped him here.

The Honey-bug claim might or might not be a good placer mine—­time would show—­but it was certainly a wonderful location.  Below the sloping bench on which it stood the country fell away into the brown heat haze of the lowlands, a curtain that could lift before a north wind to reveal a landscape magnificent as a kingdom.  Spreading white oaks gave shade, a spring sang from the side hill on which grew lofty pines, and back to the east rose the dark or glittering Sierras.  The meadow at the back was gay with mariposa lilies, melodious with bees and birds, aromatic with the mingled essences of tarweed, lads-love, and the pines.  At this happy elevation the sun lay warm and caressing, but the air tasted cool.

“I could love this,” said the woman.

“You’ll have a chance,” said John Gates, “for when we’ve made our pile, we’ll always keep this to come back to.”