"You bet, stranger. This is Californy. Look jest as fur as ye can, an' ye can't see nothin' but Californy. An', stranger, these 'ere mountings is jest chuck full o' gold. Some on 'em, like enough, is the solid yaller stuff itself."
By this time the brawny fellow had picked Stanley up and set him on the horse. Then, climbing up behind Mark, he spoke to the horse, which, out of seeming deference to Mark's injuries, moved cautiously along the trail toward the point where Mark had encamped the night before.
"Stop a moment, my friend," said Mark, suddenly.
"What's the matter? Does ridin' hurt ye? Is yer pains an' sich gittin' wuss? 'Cause if they am, I'll jest put yer down here, an' hustle quick inter camp, an' git some o' the boys ter come an' help me tote yer the rest o' the way in a rag. I'd 'a' done it in the fust place, on'y I thought this 'ould be quicker." And he dismounted as he finished speaking.
"No, no; not that," answered Mark: "I am comfortable enough, thanks to your kindness. But what is the use of your putting yourself to all this trouble? I have no money—and"
"Let up, let up," said the man, climbing back on his horse again. "Who in thunder axed yer fur money? Do yer think we fellers runs a nussery, or a hosspittle, an' that I was out huntin' up subjecks when I seen you? No, sir. This is Californy; an' Californy is a white man's country. Lots o' things is free here, even ter preachin'. I'll tote ye inter camp, an' we'll feed ye an' fix ye up. When ye gits over bein' danced on by yer hoss, ye can stake out yer little claim, an' dig all the money ye wants, outen the rocks. Er, ef ye don't like that, I'll let yer work some in my claim. I'll grub-stake ye, anyhow, an', 'casionally, I'll chuck in some yaller dust."
"What part of California are we in?" asked Mark, an hour afterwards, when, just as the sun was setting, the two men rode into the first mining-camp that Mark Stanley ever saw.
"This here is Red Mounting, an' these is the Red Mounting mines," was the answer. "By the way, stranger, fur convenience, let me tell yer that they calls me Droopy in this country. 'Tain't my real name, in course; that is, I mean, it ain't my christenin'-name ; but the boys calls me Droopy 'cause my eyes is kinder cut on a bias. 'Tain't allus healthy ter ax a man his name, in this country, an', in course, I don't ax yer what yours is; but yer can do as yer like 'bout tellin' me what yer wants the boys ter call ye, though more likely 'n not they'll hitch some new name to yer what yer mother wouldn't know yer by."
Mark answered by telling Droopy his real name, but it was plain to see that Droopy did not believe him.
The Red Mountain miners gave Mark Stanley a cordial greeting. In a few weeks he was entirely recovered from his injuries, and able to work. He soon decided that mining was not the avenue along which he would pass to fortune. It was hard work, and its profits were a matter of vast uncertainty. He reached Red Mountain in the early part of June, and the last of August he left it for San Francisco. Before going, he took Droopy into his confidence, telling every bit of his
