ROCKY GULCH AND NEIGHBORHOOD.
It was a bright day one week from the stirring events just narrated.
The scene has changed from the bustling little Western town of Sackville to the wilds of the State of Montana.
The exact spot was a point three miles southeast of a rough-and-ready mining settlement known as Rocky Gulch, and seven miles, as the crow flies, from the town of Trinity on the North Branch of the Cheyenne River.
On one side was a rocky hill, pierced at this particular locality by a rude opening, which might correctly be termed a cave, though it looked more like a hole in the wall of rock than anything else.
On the other side was the head of a wide creek, to which the name of Beaver had been applied, and a narrow, circuitous stream ran into it from its source somewhere in the hills beyond.
Two men—one of whom bore a strong likeness to Otis Clymer, the other to Dave Plunkett—were standing midway between the cave and the creek.
“This must be the place,” said the former, referring to a slip of paper he held in his hand.
“Where’s the mine?” asked Plunkett, in a tone which showed he was not wholly pleased with the outlook.
“That hole yonder must be the entrance to it,” suggested Clymer.