Butte City is said to be, not only the greatest mining camp in Montana, but the greatest in the world. They boast of the many millions that are brought to the light of day by the magic wand of the miner’s pick. Vance found lodging at the Mercury Hotel, and early the next morning, after breakfasting heartily, started for a walk.
The town is built on a side-hill, gently rising from the depot grounds westward to a very considerable elevation. He paused now and then to inspect the architecture of some of the buildings, and then looked away toward the smelter districts, at the black clouds of smoke which the chimneys were belching forth, and falling over the city like a veil of mourning.
Presently he was accosted by an individual of grizzly beard and good-matured countenance, who said: “Hello, pard; how d’ye do? Sizin’ up these diggins’ be ye?”
As Vance eyed his questioner rather critically and acknowledged the salutation, the fellow reached him a card which bore the name “Hank Casey.” While Vance was glancing at the card, his new acquaintance said:
“I reckon you be from down east? I come from thar a long time ago. You’ll notice from my card that I’m in the real estate business; also have some fine minin’ propositions.”
“Yes,” replied Vance, “I am from the east, but do not know as I care to make any investments.”
“Well, now, look’ee? here, stranger. I ‘spect I might give you a pinter or two that may not come amiss. This ‘ere town is chuck up full of dead beats and black legs, who make it their business to run every new feller in that comes from down east. Now Hank Casey do a straight-for’ard, legitimate business—that’s me,” said he, as he tucked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest and straightened himself to his fullest height.