The cold of foot-hill California in the month Of January held the night. The occupants of the cart were too cramped and stiffened by it, and too uncomfortably enwrapped against it, to speak. Silence lay like a spell on the landscape that brooded over them. At last the final stopping place, Chinese Gulch, they had halted at the main saloon, and whisky and water had been passed to the driver and to the burlier figure on the back seat. The watchers that flocked to the saloon door were eying the third occupant of the carriage with intent and sheepish curiosity.