The father grunted a sulky “Yes.”
“A baby, Hugh. An honest-to-God baby. The first in Virginia City. What do you think about that?”
“Could we see it, do you reckon?” the younger brother asked eagerly.
Scot turned on him reproving eyes. “I’m surprised at you, Hugh. That baby’s being—fed—right now.” Suddenly he wheeled on the emigrant. “Boy or girl?”
“Girl!”
“Great. We’ll call her Virginia.”
“Her name’s Susan,” the father growled.
“No matter. We’ll change it. Last name?”
“Dodson. Her name’s goin’ to stay right what it is now.”
A crowd of men had poured upon the vacant lot to view the scene of the killing. Some were removing the body to an adjacent saloon, others were discussing the affair guardedly from its dramatic and not from its ethical standpoint. There was no question of ethics in an ordinary killing if both combatants had had ample warning. It was the boast of Virginia, just as it was later of Austin, Pioche, Aurora, and the other Nevada camps, that it had “a man for breakfast” each day. This was not the literal truth, but it was too nearly true for comfort. The diggings were infested with wild, lawless criminals driven from more settled communities. They robbed stages, held up citizens, and maintained the rule of the six-gun among communities the great majority of whose residents would much have preferred peace and order.