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“Let me get in and examine the mine a little closer. I may be able to raise my bid.”

“Not till ye make it wan hundred thousand may you even have a luk at it,” she replied.

Other agents came–some confidential, others coldly critical, but all equally unsuccessful. The two “idiots” could not see why they should turn over the gold which lay there in sight to a syndicate. It was theirs by every right, and though the offers went far beyond their conception they refused to consider them.

All day axes resounded in the firs, and picks were busy in the gullies. Camp goods, provisions, and bedding streamed by on trains of mules, and by nightfall a city was in its initial stages–tent stores, open-air saloons, eating-booths, and canvas hotels. A few of the swarming incomers were skeptical of the find, but the larger number were hilariously boastful of their locations, and around their evening camp-fires groups gathered to exult over their potentialities.

The sun had set, but the western slope of the hill was still brilliant with light as Bidwell’s messenger with his sumpter horse piled high with bales of ore-sacks came round the clump of firs at the corner of Bidwell’s claim. He was followed by a tall man who rode with a tired droop and nervous clutching at the rein.

Bidwell stared and exclaimed, “May I be shot if the preachers aren’t takin’ a hand in the rush!”

The widow looked unwontedly rosy as she conclusively said, “I sent for him, man dear!”

“You did? What for?”

The widow was close enough now to put her hand in the crook of his elbow. “To make us wan, Sherm darlin’. There’s no time like the prisent.”

Bidwell tugged at his ragged beard. “I wish I had time to slick up a bit.”

“There’ll be plinty of time for that afterward,” she said. “Go welcome the minister.”

In the presence of old Angus Craig and young Johnson they were married, and when the minister gave Mrs. Bidwell a rousing smack she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and said to Bidwell:

“Now we’re ayqul partners, Sherm, and all old scores wiped out.”

And old Angus wagged his head and said, “Canny lass, the widdy!”

When the news of this marriage reached the camp demons of laughter and disorder were let loose. Starting from somewhere afar off, a loud procession formed. With camp-kettles for drums and aspen-bark whistles for pipes, with caterwaul and halloo, the whole loosely cohering army of prospectors surrounded the little log cabin of the Maggie Mine and shouted in wild discord:

“Bidwell! Come forth!”

“A speech! A speech!”

Bidwell was for poking his revolver out through the unchinked walls and ordering the mob to disperse, but his wife was diplomatic.

“‘Tis but an excuse to get drink,” she said. “Go give them treat.”

So Bidwell went forth, and, while a couple of stalwart friends lifted him high, he shouted, sharp and to the point, “It’s on me, Clark!”

The mob, howling with delight, rushed upon him and bore him away, struggling and sputtering, to Clark’s saloon, where kegs of beer were broached and the crowd took a first deep draught. Bidwell, in alarm for Maggie, began to fight to get back to the cabin. But cries arose for the bride.

“The bride–let’s see the bride!”

Bidwell expostulated. “Oh no! Leave her alone. Are you gentlemen? If you are, you won’t insist on seeing her.”

In the midst of the crowd a clear voice rang out:

“The bride, is it? Well, here she is. Get out o’ me way.”

“Clear the road there for the bride!” yelled a hundred voices as Maggie walked calmly up an aisle densely walled with strange men. She had been accustomed to such characters all her life, and knew them too well to be afraid. Mounting a beer-keg, she turned a benign face on the crowd. The light of the torches lighted her hair till it shone like spun gold in a halo round her head. She looked very handsome in the warm, sympathetic light of the burning pitch-pine.

“Oh yiss, Oi’ll make a speech; I’m not afraid of a handful of two-by-fours like you tenderfeet from the valley, and when me speech is ended ye’ll go home and go to bed. Eleven days ago Sherm, me man, discovered this lode. Since then we’ve both worked night and day to git out the ore–we’re dog-tired–sure we are–but we’re raisonable folk and here we stand. Now gaze y’r fill and go home and l’ave us to rest–like y’r dacent mothers would have ye do.”

“Good for you, Maggie!” called old Angus Craig, who stood near her. “Mak’ way, lads!”

The men opened a path for the bride and groom and raised a thundering cheer as they passed.

Old Angus Craig shook his head again and said to Johnson: “Sik a luck canna last. To strike a lode and win a braw lass a’ in the day, ye may say. Hoo-iver, he waited lang for baith.”