“We live there.”
“The deuce! Queer town, ain’t it?”
“In what respect?”
“Don’t like visitors; Red Tom and Missouri Mike, two of the gang with me, stopped there a year or so ago with the idee of staying; the best they could do was to sleep there one night and git fired the next morning. That went agin the grain,” continued Colonel Briggs, “and the more the boys thought it over the madder they got. When they told the rest of us, we made up our minds that the trouble was the diggings had panned out so rich in them parts that the folks meant to keep ’em to themselves. I don’t call that square, so we’re going down to divvy with ’em. Big scheme, ain’t it?”
Our three friends were astounded. The addition of this gang to New Constantinople meant nothing less than its moral ruin. It would bring a peril from the first hour and doubtless precipitate a murderous conflict with a doubtful issue.
“They are a peculiar people,” said Captain Dawson, repressing all evidence of his anger; “it’s a mistake to attribute their prejudice against immigrants to the richness of the diggings, for though they have been worked for years, they have not produced much. But they want no strangers among them, and I know they will not allow you and your friends to make your homes in their settlement.”
Colonel Briggs threw back his head, opened his enormous mouth and broke into uproarious laughter, most of his companions joining him to the extent of a broad grin.
“Do you hear that, boys? Won’t let us settle among ’em, eh? And there are nine of us and we hain’t had a scrimmage since we left Sacramento, except with the Injins, which don’t count. Stranger, we’re yearning to hear your folks say we shan’t jine ’em, ’cause if they try to stop it, it’ll make things lively.”