The head of this institution was one Sigmund Brown.
He had come to Powder Pocket about six months prior to the time of this introduction of the camp.
Settling down quietly, he had rented one of the best buildings in the place, refitted it in fine style, and one morning his sign was found adorning the front—S. Brown, Banker.
He had a game in contemplation.
He had money, the other fellows had the property. They could not do anything without money.
His money was on call, as said, but every loan was vouched for by an iron-clad mortgage, and it was his boast that in five years he would own the town.
The interest was high, the loan was not sufficient, in most cases, to develop beyond the mere beginnings, and on the day when the interest could not be met nor the principal paid, he would foreclose.
He was there to double—to treble his pile, and he made no secret among his intimates of his means.
One day a miner entered his private office in an excited state.
The private office was always open to those who came on particular business, and this man had announced that his business was of the utmost importance.