“Is it a good camp?” asked Hugh seriously. “That’s what I came to find out.”
“Kid, it’s a sockdolager. Them hills is full of silver. All you got to do is to drive a pick in and find the ore.”
“That’s all you’ve got to do anywhere in these United States,” agreed McClintock drily. “Question is, will you find it?”
Budd began to sputter with excitement. In the West it always has been the first article of a man’s faith to believe in his town. One might have slandered the fat man’s relatives and hoped to escape alive, but for Piodie he would have fought at the drop of a hat.
“Why—why—doggone yore hide, kid, this camp’s got Virginia skinned four ways from Sunday. It’s the best ever. Ore from the grass roots. Everywhere—all ’round. Millions o’ tons of it.” He waved a fat hand expansively as he warmed to his theme. “This here town is built in the heart of nature’s storehouse, the mint where her auriferous deposits were planted when the Sierras was a hole in the ground. Son, you tie up to Piodie an’ you’ll sure do yorese’f proud.”
In the midst of his oration a small wiry man stepped unobtrusively into the stable. Hugh deserted Budd to greet his partner.
Byers, always taciturn, broke a record and made a long speech. He said, “Glad to see you.”
CHAPTER XVI
IN THE PIT OF NIGHT
Hugh strolled down Turkey Creek Avenue and lost himself in the crowd which filled the walks and jostled its overflow into the road. Piodie called itself a city, but it had as yet no street lights, no sewers, no waterworks, no graded roads, and no sidewalks other than a few whipsawed planks laid by private enterprise. It had, however, plenty of saloons, dance halls, and gambling houses. These advertised their wares to the world with a childlike candour, flinging shafts of light from windows and open doors upon the muddy lane between the rows of buildings.