Summary

Portrait of Cy Warman Cy Warman The Prospector and the Silver Queen

I shouldn’t consider that fraternal magnanimity required me to repeat these flattering expressions to you, Cy, only that I feel your doom draws nigh. It is borne in upon me with all the psychic force of a prophecy that you are fated to perish by the ignominious hand of our own and only Soapy, if you persist in starting that daily. You can’t run a daily without saying something, and you can’t say anything that ought to be said without giving mortal offense to the toughs who are running that camp, and you can’t give offense to them without getting shot.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Cy Warman Cy Warman The Prospector and the Silver Queen

Even the winged camp robber screams and flies from the blasted fields where bloom has changed to blight, and the willows weep by the icy rills. All these wondrous changes are seen by the Prospector as he sits on a lofty mountain, where the autumn winds sigh softly in the golden aspen, shaking the dead leaves down among the withered grasses, gathering the perfume of the pines, the faint odor of the dying columbine and wafting them away to the lowlands and out o’er the waste of a sun-parched plain.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Cy Warman Cy Warman The Prospector and the Silver Queen

Pretty? I should think she is pretty. That is why I felt so particularly anxious about her going to Creede. If she had been a ewe-necked old scrub of a typewriter, with a peaked nose and a pair of gooseberry eyes in her head, do you fancy I could have been solicitous about her not being able to take care of herself or have dreamt of interesting you in her?
Cyrus, my princely buck, if there was any “peculiar light” in pretty Polly’s eyes, it was admiration for your manly figure. You are too modest to ever do yourself justice.
I am glad you found Ketchum and the Sure Thing Mining Company.
Source: Gutenberg

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