JIM SCOTT.
By advice of Mr. Bradford, Paul selected the Chicago, Rock Island,
Pacific route to Omaha, where he took passage on the Union Pacific
road as far as Cheyenne, in the southern part of Wyoming, known as the
"Magic City of the Plains." He was very much interested in what he saw
from the car windows as he rolled over the prairies of Illinois and the
fertile plains of Iowa. He gazed eagerly at the Mississippi River, of
which he had heard so much, and was somewhat disappointed to find it so
narrow at the point of crossing.
On again from Omaha, five hundred miles and over, till the train halted
at Cheyenne, and he got out at the station.
As he stood on the platform, while the train went on, he was accosted
by a roughly dressed man, who might be a miner to judge from his slouch
hat, his loose-fitting clothes, and his long and rather ragged-looking
beard, which seemed a stranger both to razor and scissors.
"Goin' to stop here, young man?"
"I shall stop over to-night, I think," answered Paul.
"And to-morrow I reckon you go to the Hills?"
"That is my intention," said Paul, guardedly.
"I don't know but I'll go there myself, though I did calculate to stay
here, or hereabouts, for a time."
"Have you ever been to the mines?" asked Paul.
"Have I ever been there? Well, I should smile," answered the stranger,
expectorating profusely. "Why, I own a hotel in Custer City. I left my
cousin in charge, while I made a run down here to learn the fashions."
This he said with a grim smile, and a glance at his rough attire
"Have you found them?" asked Paul.
"Well, I haven't followed 'em. Where might you be from, youngster?"
"From Chicago."
"I was there once, long ago, but I drifted on to California, and lived
there up among the mountains for seven or eight years. Somehow I didn't
get rich. But, one day, I heard of the Black Hills, and dusted for 'em."
"I hope good luck came to you there," said Paul, politely.
"You bet it did. Why, youngster, rough as I look, I consider myself
worth to-day from fifty to a hundred thousand dollars."
Paul looked at his new acquaintance with respect as a successful man.
"That is a good deal of money," he said.
"So it is. Sometimes I wake up and forget that I'm rich. Seems to
me I'm the same shiftless vagabond that lived for years among the
California mountains, but there's a heap of satisfaction in findin' I'm
mistaken."
"So I should think."
"And what's more, I don't mean to gamble away my pile, as most miners
do. I'm gettin' on in life, and I can't afford it."
"That is where you are sensible," said Paul.
"And now, youngster, if I may be so bold, what's your name?"
"Paul Palmer."
"That sounds like a story name."
"But it's my real name, for all that."
"Do you expect to make your fortune out there?"
"I don't know. I hope to find something to do."
"You're pretty young to be travelin' alone."
"Yes; I am only sixteen."
"Have you got money enough to keep you along till you get something to
do?"
"I think I can get along."
"If you get into any trouble, just call on Jim Scott--that's me--and
I'll see you through."
"Mr. Scott, I am very much obliged to you for such a kind offer to a
stranger."
"_Mr._ Scott? Oh, you mean me! I'd rather you'd call me Jim--it comes
more natural."
"Then I say, thank you, Jim," said Paul, offering his hand.
"That's all right," said Mr. Scott, in a tone of satisfaction. "Now
come round to the hotel, and I'll put you up to a wrinkle or two, and
we'll talk over our trip to Custer City."
"Then you are going, too?"
"Yes, if you don't mind my company."
"I shall be glad to have the benefit of your experience."
Paul knew that it behooved him to avoid sudden acquaintanceships, but
there was something in Mr. Scott's manner, rough as his appearance was,
that inspired confidence.