wind came soughing up the gorge.  Early birds were beginning to flit from tree to tree, singing their welcome to belated Springtime; a fleecy cloud lazily floating far overhead gave deeper background to the slender strip of over-arching blue.  It all combined to form a nature picture of primeval peace, rendered peculiarly solemn by those vast ranges of overshadowing mountains, and more deeply impressive by the grim silence and loneliness, the seemingly total absence of human life.

Yet in this the scene was most deceptive.  Neither peace nor loneliness lurked amid those sombre rock shadows; over all was the dominance of men—­primitive, fighting men, rendered almost wholly animal by the continued hardships of existence, the ceaseless struggle after gold.  The vagrant trail, worn deep between rocks by the constant passage of men and mules, lay close beside the singing water, while here and there almost imperceptible branches struck off to left or right, running as directly as possible up the terraced benches until the final dim traces were completely lost amid the low-growing cedars.  Each one of these led as straight as nature would permit to some specific spot where men toiled incessantly for the golden dross, guarding their claims with loaded rifles, while delving deeper and deeper beneath the mysterious rocks, ever seeking to make their own the secret hoards of the world’s great storehouse.  Countless centuries were being rudely unlocked through the ceaseless toil of pick and shovel, the green hillsides torn asunder and disfigured by ever-increasing piles of debris, while eager-eyed men struggled frantically to obtain the hidden riches of the rocks.  Here and there a rudely constructed log hut, perched with apparent recklessness upon the brink of the precipice, told the silent story of a claim, while in other places the smouldering remains of a camp-fire alone bespoke primitive living.  Yet every where along that upper terrace, where in places the seductive gold streak lay half uncovered to the sun, were those same yawning holes leading far down beneath the surface; about them grouped the puny figures of men performing the labors of Hercules under the galling spur of hope.

On this higher ledge, slightly beyond a shallow intersecting gorge shadowed by low-growing cedars, two men reclined upon a rock-dump, gazing carelessly off six hundred feet sheer down into the gloomy depths of the canyon below.  Just beyond them yawned the black opening of their shaft-hole, the rude windlass outlined against the gray background of rock, while somewhat to the left, seemingly overhanging the edge of the cliff, perched a single-roomed cabin of logs representing home.  This was the “Little Yankee” claim, owners William Hicks and “Stutter” Brown.  The two partners were sitting silent and idle, a single rifle lying between them on the dump.  Hicks was tall, lank, seamed of face, with twinkling gray eyes, a goat’s beard dangling at his chin