All the buildings were of a temporary character—generally of one story. There was a long street, after the fashion of most western-pioneer settlements, but the houses on it were not many. The largest was a general store for the sale of such articles as miners need. It was kept by one Joe Loche. He came from Maine to Montana, mined for a while with indifferent success, and then opened a store. This was a business he knew something about, and he succeeded almost immediately. His store was a general rendezvous¹ of miners in the intervals² of work.

 

One morning, when four or five persons were in Loche's store, sitting around on kegs, a young man of about thirty entered. He had a long, thin face and roving eyes, and looked like one whom a prudent³ man would not care to meet on a dark night.

 

He entered the store and looked about him curiously⁴. He was a stranger in the settlement, and his glances were returned with interest.

 

"Mornin' stranger!" said Loche, who always had an eye for a possible customer. "What can I do for you? What did you say your name was?"

 

"I didn't say."

 

This curt⁵ answer produced an unfavorable impression.

 

"I reckon you've got a name, ain't yer?" said Joe, coldly.

 

"Yes. My name is Ralph Nixon."

 

The statement was received with surprise.

 

"Any relation to old Tom Nixon, who lives on the hill?"

 

This question, asked by Joe Loche, voiced the question which all wished to ask.

 

"He is my uncle. Can you tell me about him?"

 

"The old man is pretty sick," said Joe.

 

"Like to die?" asked Ralph, eagerly.

 

"Oh, well, I don't know. Men that are always dying live for years sometimes. Haven't you seen him lately?"

 

"No; I never saw him."

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