Cherry Creek was almost dry. Camps and cabins had been located right in the middle of it, so they easily walked across. Auraria was larger than Denver, but the buildings were not so good. They were of rough cottonwood logs, whereas the Denver logs were smoothed and many were of pine brought down from the timber in the hills. Auraria had the newspaper, the Rocky Mountain News, whose press and type and so forth had been hauled overland by the editor, Mr. W. N. Byers. Like Denver City, Auraria was bustling with all kinds of people.
“How are you, strangers? Don’t you want to buy a city lot and make your fortune?” invited an alert man of the two Hee-Haws.
“What’s the price?” asked Mr. Baxter.
“What’ll you give? Cash or trade? The best lots in the city. Can’t be beat.”
“Will you take a sack of flour?” demanded Mr. Baxter.
“Done!” snapped the man. “Flour’s better than money, friend. Where’s your flour?”
“Where are your lots?”
“Right yonder. I’ll show you.”
The man promptly led them on. The lots proved to be somewhere in the midst of bare, sandy ground half a mile out from the business street. They looked forlorn and lonely, and Davy did not think much of them. Neither, evidently, did Mr. Baxter. One rude cabin stood there.