“Bright Eyes” had made me--it looked as if it would also unmake me.
“You can’t get it out of their heads in these parts that first-comers on
a strike ain’t due to be millionaires,” one man told me. “If you want a
hoss you’ll have to carpenter together a new one. The only plugs in the
city that haven’t been nailed by prospectors are the spare hosses of
the stage company--and old Uncle Sam’s mail keeps his thumb down hard on
those critters.”
Then I set my teeth and began to hunt all the harder for my friend. I
got word of him here and there, but an eel in a dock quicksand could not
have been more of a dodger. It was evident that success had put springs
into the legs and restlessness into the heart of this new Rockebilt of
Breed City. The trail grew hot--the trail grew cold. It was late in the
evening when I finally caught up with him. He was clinking glasses with
“Dirty-shirt” Maddox, in a bar down an alley where Breed City’s virtuous
ten-o’clock-closing ordinance could be more safely violated.
“I’ve done a lot for you, Mr. Mann, but I can’t monkey-doodle with the
company hosses at this time o’ year when the mud makes double work.”