Inquiry was being made in every direction for Deadwood Dick.
It was known that the last case he had undertaken was the hunting down of Captain Joaquin, or the Red Rover, and it was feared that he had met his death at the hands of that cutthroat and this band.
Dick remained in hiding, and thus Captain Joaquin, wherever he might be, would be lulled into the confirmation of his belief that Deadwood Dick was no longer to be feared. In fact, that worthy was chuckling to himself, whenever a newspaper item concerning Dick met his eye. He believed that he alone, and those of his men who had been in the secret, could solve the mystery.
And so time passed on.
Powder Pocket was a roaring camp.
It was at the top notch of the biggest kind of a boom.
It had been a paying camp from the first, with rich mines on every hand.
New finds, too, were being reported almost daily, and people and money were flowing in as freely as water flowed down from the snow-capped peaks.
The newest institution of which Powder Pocket could boast was a bank. It was a private concern, had been opened on a grand scale, and was being conducted on a paying basis. Money could be had in almost any amount, on big interest and bigger security.