But you're jiss now takin' a pasear with ME. This
yer trail will bring you right into Indian Spring, and ONNOTICED,
and no questions asked. Don't you mind now, I'll see you through."
It was necessary here to make some stand against my strange
companion. I said firmly, yet as politely as I could, that I had
proposed stopping over night with a friend.
"Whar?"
I hesitated. The friend was an eccentric Eastern man, well known
in the locality for his fastidiousness and his habits as a recluse.
A misanthrope, of ample family and ample means, he had chosen a
secluded but picturesque valley in the Sierras where he could rail
against the world without opposition. "Lone Valley," or "Boston
Ranch," as it was familiarly called, was the one spot that the
average miner both respected and feared. Mr. Sylvester, its
proprietor, had never affiliated with "the boys," nor had he ever
lost their respect by any active opposition to their ideas. If
seclusion had been his object, he certainly was gratified.
Nevertheless, in the darkening shadows of the night, and on a
lonely and unknown trail, I hesitated a little at repeating his
name to a stranger of whom I knew so little.
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