The train arrived. Troops alighting preserved order near the pay-
car; and out of the dense mob a slow stream of men flowed into the
car at one end and out again at the other.
Bates, a giant digger and a bully, was the first man in the line,
the first to get his little share of the fortunes in gold passing
out of the car that day.
Long before half of that mob had received its pay Bates lay dead
upon a sanded floor, killed in a drunken brawl.
And the Irishman Mike had received his thirty dollars.
And the big Negro had broken the head of his friend.
And the teamster had forgotten to send money home.
And his comrade had neglected to settle for the suit of clothes he
was wearing.
And Bandy, for all his vows, had gone straight for bucking the
tiger.
And Frank, who had gotten drunk last pay-day, had been mindful of
wife and little girl far away and had done his duty.
As the spirit of the gangs changed with the coming of the gold, so
did that of the day.
The wind began to blow, the dust began to fly, the sun began to
burn; and the freshness and serenity of the morning passed.
Main street in Benton became black-streaked with men, white-sheeted
with dust. There was a whining whistle in the wind as it swooped
down. It complained; it threatened; it strengthened; and from the
heating desert it blew in stiflingly hot.
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