It was Journalist Villard, tanned and whiskered, and already booted and shirted and armed like the rest of the inhabitants. He shook hands vigorously with them.  
"Pretty fair," replied . "We've just got in. You seem to be the only person we know here."
 
"I won't be that only person long," laughed Mr. Villard. "The ends of the world are here at the rate of a thousand a day. Why, by that very stage arrived a banker I used to know well in Cincinnati, and another friend at whose house in New York I've often eaten dinner. But the reason I met the stage was that I rather expected to find in it Horace Greeley and A. D. Richardson. They're on the way."
 
"Not Horace Greeley of the New York Tribune?" Harry, as if astonished.
 
"Yes; that's the Greeley. Mr. Richardson represents the Boston Journal and some other Eastern papers. All we newspaper fellows will write the truth about the gold fields."
 
"How near is the gold?" eagerly asked Terry. "Can you show us where to dig? Have you dug?"
 
"Not very much. Not for a dollar and a half a day—and that's the most anybody is getting hereabouts. The whole bed is being turned upside down. But you see that line of pilgrims trailing out into the mountains, west across the Platte?"
 
"Yes."
 
"That's a rush to some new diggin's. They're following a new strike. It's reported on good authority that a Georgian named John Gregory has found the mother , as they call it, about forty miles out. It's a pound-a-day strike, according to the say, and the gold down below has been washed from that vein. The people are flocking in by the five hundred at a time. I haven't been up there myself yet, but I hope the news is true. Another month and we'd have had a riot in these Cherry Creek diggin's. As it is, about half the in-comers have pulled out for California, or home—and there's been talk of hanging D. C. Oakes, who issued a 'Pike's Peak Guide' last winter, and Editor Byers, of the News."
 
"Are those new diggin's on the Platte?" asked Harry, keenly.
 
"No. There're up Clear Creek, and nowhere near the Platte."
 
"Oh, jiminy!" sighed Terry. "Aren't there mines closer than that? My father was out here last summer and found one just a few miles away, up the Platte River."
 
"A Fifty-eighter, is he? Is he here now, and where's his mine?"
 
"No, sir; he came home sick, at Christmas; and he doesn't remember. But he had some dust."
 
"Those early claims didn't amount to much, as I understand," stated Mr. Villard. "That's what has fooled the people."
 
"Are any of the Russell brothers hereabouts?" asked Harry.
 
"The original boomers? Yes, they're all here now. Dr. Levi Russell has spent the winter here; but Green Russell and J. Oliver have just got in from Georgia with another party of some one hundred and fifty. You'll find them over at Auraria, though. You know, Green Russell located Auraria and named it for his home town in Georgia. The Aurarians and Denverites don't mix much, except when the stage comes. The Russells will likely be at the Eldorado Hotel this evening."
 
"And where's Archie Smith? Did you bring him through all right?"
 
"Yes. We landed him here. But I think he's joined the rush into the mountains. What are you boys intending to do now? Camp and refit, I suppose, before you look for your mine. Which are you going to be—Denverites or Aurarians?"
 
"Both," laughed Harry. "But Auraria's flying the United States flag, I see."
 
"That's over their hotel, the Eldorado. Mrs. Murat made it. Her husband claims to be an Italian count. He does barbering, and she takes in washing—and together, at the prices they charge, they're getting rich a great deal faster than most of these gold-seekers. Auraria's proud of that flag, because it's the only one in the state. Denver pretends to fun at it, and says it's a laundry sign, manufactured from old red and blue shirts and Mrs. Murat's white petticoat."
 
"What state?" demanded Harry.
 
"The new State of Jefferson—the future new state. Things move fast out here. A convention was held last month by the miners, to organize for another convention on June 8 when a state constitution will be adopted and sent to Congress. Some people wanted the state named Pike's Peak. You'll see the convention call in the Rocky Mountain News. Ah——!" and Mr. Villard gazed aside. "There's a man I ought to talk with. Good-bye; meet you later, I hope."
 
"I don't believe we'll wait for that convention," proposed Harry. "And I don't believe we ought to put in much time hunting for your father's mine. We'll get right into the new diggin's before every spot's taken." Harry evidently was the fever. "First, though——"
 
"Paper? Rocky Mountain News! Fresh off the press! Buy a paper, Mister? Tell you all about the latest strikes, and where to go."
 
He was a very slim, tall young man whose trousers were finished off below the knees with gunny sacking, in order to cover his long legs.
 
"Yes. Let me have one," responded Harry. And added, to Terry, while handing out a : "That'll give us the quickest information."
 
The tall slim young man was turning the dime over and over in his palm.
 
"No good," he said. "Nothing less than a quarter goes, out here."
 
"But they told us picks and spades are fifteen cents."
 
"In trade, maybe. But these papers are a quarter, Mister. Two bits. That's the smallest change in camp. Dust or coin."
 
"Hum!" Harry, producing a quarter. He scratched his nose as he glanced at the paper. "At this rate we'll soon be ."
 
The paper was entitled "Rocky Mountain News, Cherry Creek, K. T."—the initials , of course, for Kansas Territory. W. N. Byers was . It was printed on a coarse brownish paper—seemed to be full of items about gold being brought in from "gulches"—a number of advertisements and announcements—had the convention call—
 
"We'll read it in camp," quoth Harry. "Gwan, Duke! Jenny! Haw!"
 
"Want to sell that , stranger?" interrupted another voice.
 
This man was a square, stubbly faced, red-faced and red-haired individual, in a faded cotton shirt and old army trousers belted at the waist with a rope.
 
"Why—I don't know," replied Harry, reflectively, scratching his nose.
 
The man walked around Duke, him.
 
"He's got a buckskin patch on. We'd better watch out," whispered Terry, to his partner. So he had: the whole seat of his trousers was buckskin coarsely stitched in place.
 
"Half the men in camp have buckskin or other patches," Harry. "That gives me an idea."
 
"Offer you $25, dust, stranger," the man. "He's . You can't use him. He'll be no good in the diggin's."
 
"What'll you do with him, then?" questioned Harry.
 
"Put him in my show. He won't have to work. And he's too tough for butchering. But he'll be all right on exhibition."
 
"Hum!" Harry. "My partner and I'll talk it over. We're going to camp over night before going on."
 
"If you're aiming for the mountains, you'll have to leave him, anyway. The trail is straight up—takes twenty oxen to haul half a ton. I'll give you $35, dust, for buffalo and cart. I'll exhibit 'em both."
 
"We'll talk it over," repeated Harry.
 
"So long, then. You can find me. Name of Reilly."
 
"What do you say, Terry?" queried Harry, as they continued on to a camping spot. "Duke's yours."
 
"No, he's part of the . We're in together, aren't we? But I'd hate to sell him unless he'll be treated well. Maybe we ought to sell him; he's lame. Haven't we any money left?"
 
" little. And we're nearly out of grub, too. If newspapers are twenty-five cents each, what'll a sack of flour cost? I was thinking of a shave and a hair-cut, but——! I'll shave myself and we'll cut each other's hair."
 
"If that mine is somewhere around yet, we may not have to sell him."
 
"And we'll need the cart to pack our gold in," added Harry. "But Duke and the cart wouldn't be much good up in the mountains, I should think."
 
They were fortunate in finding a camping place, with wood and water, near the mouth of Cherry Creek, at the Platte, and there tied Duke and Jenny out. The first thing to do was to wash—the next thing to write home—and the next, to have an early supper.
 
"We'll go back in before the post-office closes, look for some of the Russells, and do all that we can; and be ready to start right along somewhere or other in the morning."
 
"That's it," agreed Terry. "Whew, but there must be a lot of people hunting gold. Wonder if all of those on that trail are bound for the Gregory diggin's! We'll have to hurry." For he was getting the fever, too.
 
"We will," promised Harry.
 
When they ha............