With remarkable suddenness the cold had vanished and the thermometer mounted daily. A dank, warm atmosphere embraced the country. Under the vanishing snow were green buds that burst into bloom at the first direct rays of the sun. An unwelcome visitor invaded the camp—the mosquito. He rose from the swampy river in myriads, and made life a torture. 128
Jim had got his usual hustle on. Very quickly he became a popular figure in the town. But two days after his arrival he met an old friend—a gaunt, lanky figure, with a beard a foot long.
“Why, darn me if it ain’t Colorado Jim!”
He turned and saw Dan, late owner of the Medicine Bow Hotel, looking wonderfully prosperous and happy.
“Hello, Dan!”
“Gosh, you ain’t altered none. Come and hev’ some poison.”
They pushed their way into a crowded saloon, and Dan flung down a small poke of gold-dust for a bottle of whisky, from which he received no change.
“What’s your lay, Jim?”
“Prospectin’.”
“Wal, yore sure a queer cuss. Why in hell d’ye want to go prospectin’ with a million of the best in the bank?”