As we passed the corner of the street in which "Blaine's joint" had stood, I noticed above the door and window a strip of wood less sun-scorched than the rest. That was where the famous canvas sign had been, rolled up now and carted off with the coffee-urn to this other "city" that had depopulated Baker City. The stores, of course, were still open; for the city which is centre for five paying mines can never die. It may not always boom, with megaphones in every window and cigar smoke curling in the streets, but it will not languish.
Still, it was not the Baker City that I knew of yore, and as we entered the door of the bank, carrying our bullion, it struck me that the stage-setting was just in keeping with the part we played; for as Apache Kid had said—when we knew our wealth the adventure would be over. This was the last Act, Scene I. And I felt a quiver in my heart when the thought intruded itself, even then, that Scene II (and last) would be a farewell to Apache Kid.
Slowly the teller in the bank weighed out our nuggets, scanning us between each weighing over his gold-rimmed glasses and noting down the amounts on his writing pad.
"Grand total," said he, and paused to awaken the thrill of suspense, "forty thousand dollars."
"Forty thousand dollars," thought I, "and fifteen hundred in notes, that makes forty-one thousand five hundred."
"A mere flea-bite," Apache said.
"I beg your pardon?" said the teller, astonished.
"A mere flea-bite," repeated Apache Kid. "Look at that," and he held up a turquoise in his fingers. "Don't you think a man would give forty-one thousand five hundred for a bagful of these?"
"A bagful?" said the teller.
Apache nodded.