The consciousness that he could do all this sugar-coated his Wild
Western experiences, which otherwise might have been a little
disagreeable. He could comfort himself with the reflection that he was
superior, if ridiculous.
In spots, he was certainly the latter. The locality into which his
destinies had led him lay in the tumultuous centre of the Hills, about
thirty miles from Custer and ten from Hill City. Spanish Gulch was
three miles down the draw. The Holy Smoke mine, to which Bennington was
accredited, he found to consist of a hole in the ground, of unsounded
depth, two log structures, and a chicken coop. The log structures
resembled those he had read about. In one of them lived Arthur and his
wife. The wife did the cooking. Arthur did nothing at all but sit in
the shade and smoke a pipe, and this in spite of the fact that he did
not look like a loafer. He had no official connection with the place,
except that of husband to Mrs. Arthur. The other member of the
community was Davidson, alias Old Mizzou.
The latter was cordial and voluble. As he was blessed with a long white
beard of the patriarchal type, he inspired confidence.
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