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“Hey, youse!” shouted the car-boy. He brought his trundling, jolting, loose-jointed car to a halt by the face of the drift. “Hey, youse!” he shouted again.

Bunt shut off the Burly air-drill and nodded.

“Chaw,” he remarked to me.

We clambered into the car, and, as the boy released the brake, rolled out into the main tunnel of the Big Dipple, and banged and bumped down the long incline that led to the mouth.

“Chaw” was dinner. It was one o’clock in the morning, and the men on the night shift were taking their midnight spell off. Bunt was back at his old occupation of miner, and I–the one loafer of all that little world of workers–had brought him a bottle of beer to go with the “chaw”; for Bunt and I were ancient friends.

As we emerged from the cool, cave-like dampness of the mine and ran out into the wonderful night air of the Sierra foothills, warm, dry, redolent of witch-hazel, the carboy began to cough, and, after we had climbed out of the car and had sat down on the embankment to eat and drink, Bunt observed:

“D’ye hear that bark? That kid’s a one-lunger for fair. Which ain’t no salubrious graft for him–this hiking cars about in the bowels of the earth, Some day he’ll sure up an’ quit. Ought to go down to Yuma a spell.”

The engineer in the mill was starting the stamps. They got under way with broken, hiccoughing dislocations, bumping and stumbling like the hoofs of a group of horses on the cattle-deck in a gale. Then they jumped to a trot, then to a canter, and at last settled down to the prolonged roaring gallop that reverberated far off over the entire canon.

“I knew a one-lunger once,” Bunt continued, as he uncorked the bottle, “and the acquaintance was some distressful by reason of its bringing me into strained relations with a cow-rustlin’, hair-liftin’, only-one-born-in-captivity, man-eatin’ brute of a one-legged Greaser which he was named Peg-leg Smith. He was shy a leg because of a shotgun that the other man thought wasn’t loaded. And this here happens, lemme tell you, ‘way down in the Panamint country, where they wasn’t no doctor within twenty miles, and Peg-leg outs with his bowie and amputates that leg hisself, then later makes a wood stump outa a ole halter and a table-leg. I guess the whole jing-bang of it turned his head, for he goes bad and loco thereafter, and begins shootin’ and r’arin’ up an’ down the hull Southwest, a-roarin’ and a-bellerin’ and a-takin’ on amazin’. We dasn’t say boo to a yaller pup while he’s round. I never see such mean blood. Jus’ let the boys know that Peg-leg was anyways adjacent an’ you can gamble they walked chalk.

“Y’see, this Peg-leg lay it out as how he couldn’t abide no cussin’ an’ swearin’. He said if there was any tall talkin’ done he wanted to do it. And he sure could. I’ve seed him hold on for six minutes by the watch an’ never repeat hisself once. An’ shoot! Say, lemme tell you he did for two Greasers once in a barroom at La Paz, one in front o’ him, t’other straight behind, him standing between with a gun in each hand, and shootin’ both guns at the same time. Well, he was just a terror,” declared Bunt, solemnly, “and when he was in real good form there wa’n’t a man south o’ Leadville dared to call his hand.

“Now, the way I met up with this skunkin’ little dewdrop was this-like It was at Yuma, at a time when I was a kid of about nineteen. It was a Sunday mornin’; Peg-leg was in town. He was asleep on a lounge in the back room o’ Bud Overick’s Grand Transcontinental Hotel. (I used to guess Bud called it that by reason that it wa’n’t grand, nor transcontinental, nor yet a hotel–it was a bar.) This was twenty year ago, and in those days I knowed a one-lunger in Yuma named Clarence. (He couldn’t help that–he was a good kid–but his name was Clarence.) We got along first-rate. Yuma was a great consumptive place at that time. They used to come in on every train; yes, and go out, too–by freight.