“In other words,” broke in the doctor, “they are an organized band of cut-throats and highway robbers making this honest camp a headquarters.”
“Pshaw, Doctor,” said Randall, “that’s by no means certain.”
“It’s certain enough,” insisted the doctor.
“I should think the miners would drive them out,” I said.
“Drive them out!” cried the doctor bitterly; “they’re too busy, and their own toes haven’t been trodden on, and they’re too willing to let well enough alone so as not to be interrupted in their confounded digging for gold.”
“They’re not organized and they are quite justly unwilling to get in a row with that gang when they know they’d be killed,” stated Randall quietly. “They’re getting on ‘well enough,’ and they’ll continue to be run by this lot 283 of desperadoes until something desperate happens. They want to be let alone.”
The doctor recovered his equanimity with an effort.
“They present the curious spectacle,” said he thoughtfully, “of the individual man in a new untrammelled liberty trying to escape his moral obligations to society. He escapes them for a while, but they are there; and in the end he must pay in violence.”
Randall laughed and arose.
“If the doctor is going to begin that sort of thing, I’m going,” said he.