About Virginia City there have been many disputes, but nobody who lived there in the ’sixties ever denied that it was the windiest spot on earth. The town slanted like a steep roof, each street a terrace. During the zephyrs all sorts of possessions came rolling downhill like tumbleweeds. They ranged in size from a spool of thread to the roof of a house.
Scot McClintock, working his way along B Street, took refuge in a hurdy-gurdy[[7]] near Union. The noise of a piano, of fiddles, of stamping feet, filled the hall. The place was flooded with light from kerosene lamps set in candelabras with crystal pendants. At one side of the room was the inevitable bar.
[7] An unusual feature of Virginia City was the hurdy-gurdy house. In the early days it was quite respectable, at least from the Western point of view. The girls were generally Germans. Their business was to dance with the miners and to lead them afterwards to the bar for a drink. Most of the girls saved their money to send home to their parents overseas. Serious-minded young women, they often married well and happily. Later, these houses degenerated.—W. M. R.
A blonde young woman of Teutonic descent joined Scot. “Would you like to dance, Mr. McClintock?” she asked deferentially.
“Not to-night, thank you,” he answered with the grave respect he gave all women.
His glance swept the hall, was arrested at a small group near the farther end of the bar. The central figure of it was a huge rough-bearded man with long hair flowing to his shoulders. He wore an army overcoat, dusty boots, and Mexican spurs.
The girl’s eyes gave a signal of alarm. She had forgotten for the moment about the affair between the McClintocks and Sam Dutch.
“First time he’s been down,” she whispered. “He has not yet seen you already. If you like—the door——”