Van said:  “If you two old idiots don’t do the lion and the lamb act pretty pronto I’ll send you both to the poor house.”

They had entered the hay-yard, among the mules and horses.  Gettysburg promptly reached down, laid hold of Napoleon, and kissed him violently upon the nose.

Napoleon wept.  “What did I s-s-s-s-(whistle) say?” he sobbed lugubriously.  “Oh, death, where is thy s-s-s-s-(whistle) sting?”

Evening had come.  The two fell asleep in Algy’s tent, locked in each other’s arms.

CHAPTER XIII

A COMBINATION OF FORCES

Bostwick effected a change of dress in the rear of the nearest store.  A rough blue shirt, stout kahki garments and yellow “hiking” boots converted him into one of the common units of which the camp throng was comprised.  He was then duly barbered, after which he made a strenuous but futile endeavor to procure accommodations for the night.

There was no one with leisure to listen to his tirade on the shameful inadequacy of the attributes of civilization in the camp, and after one brief attempt to arouse civic indignation against Van for his acts of deliberate lawlessness, he perceived the ease with which he might commit an error and render himself ridiculous.  He dropped all hope of publicly humiliating the horseman and deferred his private vengeance for a time more opportune.

Wholly at a loss to cope with a situation wherein he found himself so utterly neglected and unknown, despite the influential position he occupied both in New York and Washington, he resolved to throw himself entirely upon the mercies of McCoppet.

He knew his man only through their correspondence, induced by Beth’s brother, Glenmore Kent.  Inquiring at the bank, he was briefly directed to the largest saloon of the place.  When he entered the bar he found it swarming full of men, miners, promoters, teamsters, capitalists, gamblers, lawyers, and—­the Lord alone knew what.  The air was a reek of smoke and fumes of liquor.  A blare of alleged music shocked the atmosphere.  Men drunk and men sober, all were talking mines and gold, the greatness of the camp, the richness of the latest finds, and the marvel of their private properties.  Everyone had money, everyone had chunks of ore to show to everyone else.

At the rear were six tables with layouts for games of chance.  Faro, “klondike,” roulette, stud-poker, almost anything possibly to be desired was there.  All were in full blast.  Three deep the men were gathered about the wheel and the “tiger.”  Gold money in stacks stood at every dealer’s hand.  Bostwick had never seen so much metal currency in all his life.

He asked for McCoppet at the bar.

“Opal?  Somewhere back—­that’s him there, talkin’ to the guy with the fur on his jaw,” informed the barkeeper, making a gesture with his thumb.  “What’s your poison?”