From all this I deduced that the miner had been away on a visit to New York, or Boston, or Washington.
As we rose the air became so cool, so clear, so crisp, that we seemed to be entering a land of eternal dew and roses, and as our car filled with the delicious scent of pine branches and green grasses, the miner, with a solemn look on his face, took off his hat and, turning to me, said, with deep intonation:
"This is what I call air. This is good for what ails me."
"You've been away," I stated rather than asked.
"I've been back East—back to see the old folks—first time in eleven years."
"What do you call East?" I pursued.
"Anything back of the Missouri River," he replied, smiling a little. "In this case it was Michigan—near Jackson."
"Citizen of the camp?" I nodded up the cañon.
"Yes, I'm workin' a lease on Bull Hill."