Within a brief time Sam Clemens (he was never known as otherwise than “Sam” among those pioneers) was about the most conspicuous figure on the Carson streets.  His great bushy head of auburn hair, his piercing, twinkling eyes, his loose, lounging walk, his careless disorder of dress, drew the immediate attention even of strangers; made them turn to look a second time and then inquire as to his identity.

He had quickly adapted himself to the frontier mode.  Lately a river sovereign and dandy, in fancy percales and patent leathers, he had become the roughest of rough-clad pioneers, in rusty slouch hat, flannel shirt, coarse trousers slopping half in and half out of the heavy cowskin boots Always something of a barbarian in love with the loose habit of unconvention, he went even further than others and became a sort of paragon of disarray.  The more energetic citizens of Carson did not prophesy much for his future among them.  Orion Clemens, with the stir and bustle of the official new broom, earned their quick respect; but his brother—­well, they often saw him leaning for an hour or more at a time against an awning support at the corner of King and Carson streets, smoking a short clay pipe and staring drowsily at the human kaleidoscope of the Plaza, scarcely changing his position, just watching, studying, lost in contemplation—­all of which was harmless enough, of course, but how could any one ever get a return out of employment like that?

Samuel Clemens did not catch the mining fever immediately; there was too much to see at first to consider any special undertaking.  The mere coming to the frontier was for the present enough; he had no plans.  His chief purpose was to see the world beyond the Rockies, to derive from it such amusement and profit as might fall in his way.  The war would end, by and by, and he would go back to the river, no doubt.  He was already not far from homesick for the “States” and his associations there.  He closed one letter: 

I heard a military band play “What Are the Wild Waves Saying” the other night, and it brought Ella Creel and Belle (Stotts) across the desert in an instant, for they sang the song in Orion’s yard the first time I ever heard it.  It was like meeting an old friend.  I tell you I could have swallowed that whole band, trombone and all, if such a compliment would have been any gratification to them.

His friends contracted the mining mania; Bob Howland and Raish Phillips went down to Aurora and acquired “feet” in mini-claims and wrote him enthusiastic letters.  With Captain Nye, the governor’s brother, he visited them and was presented with an interest which permitted him to contribute an assessment every now and then toward the development of the mine; but his enthusiasm still languished.

He was interested more in the native riches above ground than in those concealed under it.  He had heard that the timber around Lake Bigler (Tahoe) promised vast wealth which could be had for the asking.  The lake itself and the adjacent mountains were said to be beautiful beyond the dream of art.  He decided to locate a timber claim on its shores.