For hours Manuel Pesquiera had been rolling up the roof of the
ontinent in an observation-car of the "Short Line." His train had
wound in and out through a maze of bewild-ering scenery, and was at
last dipping down into the basin of the famous gold camp. The alert
black eyes of the young New Mexican wandered discontentedly over
the raw ugliness of the camp. Towns straggled here and there
untidily at haphazard, mushroom growths of a day born of a lucky
"strike." Into the valleys and up and down the hillsides ran a
network of rails for trolley and steam cars. Everywhere were the
open tunnel mouths or the frame shaft-houses perched above the gray
Titan dump beards.
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