He was big and brown and husky, and for the most part he inhabitied the buffet car of the train that bore me westward. After two years among the sick in a crowded hospital the sight of so much health on the hoof was pleasing to the eye. He wore a slouch hat, a belted coat of olive drab, riding breeches and puttees, and carried them off so gracefully that they did not seem out of place on a passenger train. By the color of his skin he had lived much in the open air; but his large hands were well kept, and the cut of his riding breeches betrayed city tailoring of the expensive sort. I remember speculating idly as to who and what this brown giant might be. Somewhere west of Chicago, when silver dollars began to make their appearance in the buffet car, there was a noticeable thaw in the social atmosphere, a subtle change in the demeanor of the passengers. Tongues, tied by convention, became loosened, and conversation, thitherto sporadic, became general. The wholesome democracy of the West was asserting itself.

"How far do you go, doc?" said the giant, as he dropped into a chair by my side, I was astonished.

"What makes you think I am a doctor?" Iasked.

"Lots of things. I had two guesses. Am I right?"

"You certainly are." We drifted into conversation. I explained that I was on my vacation, taveling for pleasure. "I've always wanted to see the West," said I. "I expect to spend a couple of months in Southern California."

The big man shook his head. "You won't see any of the West there," said he. "San Francisco still has a few of the sons and grandsons of the forty-niners, but the southern part of the state is the tourist center of the universe. Los Angeles isn't a Western city, it's a mixture of Michigan, Iowa and Kansas. It's the buckle of the cafeterial belt, civilized to death! Now, if you want to see the real West, where there's a bit of the wild and woolly left, don't miss the Bullfrog."

"The What?"

"The Bullfrog District, the newest and greattest mining country in Nevada. You've heard of Tonopah and Goldfield?"

I nodded. No reader of the newspapers could have escaped the flaring full page advertisments of mining stock that Western promoters flung in his face day after day.

"Well," said the big man, "there are better mines and better prospects in the Bullfrog than Tonopah ever saw. The Mizpah won't be a circumstance when some of our mines get opened up! Most of the men on this train are going into the new field. There's a big rush on now. See that fellow looking out the window? He's a mining expert from the Transvaal. The one next to him made a fortune in Dawson City and dropped it all in the New York stock market. He's ging back to get some more. The fat old boy in the corner is a mining man from South America. "They are flocking into Nevada from all over the world because it's the big gold country, the coming contry. Just as an experience it would be worth you while to take a trip to the Bullfrog. And then you might stumble on to a lot of money.

Don't laugh; such things have happened. Look at the Goldfield millionaires today! How many of 'em walked into the camp without a nickel; now he can write his check for two million, and get it cashed too. Take the case of ---"

There followed wonderful stories of sudden wealth, of craxy antics of fortune's wheel, of cities born overnight and desert places populated as if by magic. Some of those stories, as I now know, were true.

"Yes sir!" concluded the giant;"gold is where you find it, and wherever you find it people will go. If you're out to see things, doc, you shouldn't miss this. It may be the last great gold-rush this country will see until Mexico opens up. Think it over."

I began to listen to the conversation of the other passengers. They were nearly all mining men and they spoke a language I could not understand; yet I found it fascinating in its fragmentary state. Their figure of speech were generous and when they mentioned money it was in terms of millions. I recalled my youthful literary loves -- Roughing It and the Western stories of Bret Harte. The last great gold rush! Unquestionably it would be worth seeing. I began to think that I might do worse than follow the disty trail of the Argonauts. For six years I had not allowed myself a vacation. After graduating in medicine I had spent two years under a celebrated surgeon in an Eastern hospital. The hours were long and the remuneration small, but the experience was priceless. Following my Western jaunt I expected to spend two years in Europe specializing in certain branches of surgery. After that I would face the heart-breaking period through which every young physician passes, the struggle to earn a living and establish himself in the profession. I mention this simply to make it clear that curiosity and a desire to be entertained were the motives that set me down on the station platform in Las Vegas, Nevada, on a blazing day in August, 1906.

My future, as I then saw it, was already outlined; the trip into the Bullfrog Distrct was nothing more serious than a diversion, a vacation incident. In this careless spirit of adventure, and all unconscious of it significance, I took what has since proved to be the most important step of my life. I was never to use the return portion of my railroad ticket; and if I ever see Europe it will not be as a student. The desert was to claim the next four years, four years crowded with hard work and the kaleidoscopic changes that are part of a mining camp's existence. I am like the mad who said; "Part of the show I saw; the rest of it I was."

I place their responsibility with the first Western booster I ever met, the big brown man. Nevada swarmed with boosters in those days; they voiced the spirit of the country. I sometimes wonder where they are now, those cheery optimists of the boom times who talked and dreamed in seven figures, and never by and slip of the tongue admitted the possibility of failure. Two days later, stiff and sore, crusted with alkali dust and blistered with a fierce dry heat, I arrived in Beatty, then an important camp in the district and Rhyolite's rival as the metropolis of the Bullfrog District. In order to reach Beatty the stage traveled through one hundred and thirty miles of inferno that seemed to produce nothing but rock, cactus, sand, alkali and greaswood. Wherever my skin was exposed it felt as if it had been sandpapered and toasted over a slow fire. There had been strange experiences en route, but the one that made the deepest impression on me was the sight of drinking water on sale at fifteen cents a gallon!

Beatty boasted one hotel, and boasted is the word, for modesty had no place in Nevada in 1906; and that hotel had "the only room with bath in the Bullfrog" as the clerk proudly informed me. Out of politeness I asked the price of this luxury and was told that it was twelve dollars a day. I presume the price of the water was included, but I do not know, for I did not occupy that room. The clerk at the hotel looked at my low shoes and straw hat and offered me advice. "Don't order any mixed drinks in this camp,"said he. "It's not safe. The other night an Easterner went into a saloon down the line and ordered a gin daisy. Their regular bartender was off watch and old Fred Mitchell, a faro dealer, was taking his place. Fred was all right on the case goods and the straight stuff, but the gin daisy floored him. He was too proud to expose his ignorance before a stranger, so he went ahead and made up a drink with a little of everything in it. The Easterner tasted it and asked for his money back. One word led to another, and finally Fred lost his patience and took a shot at him across the bar, put a hole through his right hand. Poor old Fred was so mortified at missing a man right on tap of him that way that he laid his head down on the bar and cried like a baby. No, it's not safe to order mixed drinks here."

I listened to that story with my tongue in my cheek. Afterward, when I came to know Fred Mitchell, I found that it was true. To the day of his death he never ceased to count that shot as a miss. I did not remain long in Beatty. The rush was centering on Rhyolite and I went with it. As the stage topped the rise we looked down upon the metropolis of the Bullfrog district, a scattering of unpainted framed buildings and tents, spread out between two mountains and lying in the neck of a horseshoe of low, rocky hills. "is that all there is to the town?" I should have known better than to ask such a question as that, and of a stage driver too!

"Well, no," said he; "Not exactly. The skyscrapers are sort of hid behind Ladd Mountain. You can't see the Flatiron Building from here or the Elevated Railroad either." At that period there was not a two-story structure in the camp. The larger buildings were mere frames covered with canvas, and most of them were saloons, gambling houses and dance halls combined. Rhyolite, as I was soon to learn, was never more than one-third asleep. The day was divided into three shifts of eight hours each, one for work, one for sleep and one for recreation. In the bunkhouses, where bunks were built in tiers along the walls, no bed could be rented for longer than eight hours, and a late sleeper was usually dragged forth by the next occupant. Every bed worked twenty-four hours. Thus two men in three were always awake, one at work and the other idle. The idle ones amused themselves after their own fashion, the favorite pastimes in the order of their popularity being gambling, drinking and dancing, all under the same roof.

I had been given a letter to the cashier of the Bullfrog Bank and Trust Company, the same that afterward became known as the Bullfrog Bank and Bust Company. I found the gentleman in a frame shack, unstrapping a suitcase. "Just a minute!" said he. "I'm opening the safe of this institution."

"You don't mean to tell me you keep the bank's money in that thing?"

"Why sure! these people might kill a man, but they would never rob him." He finished opening the safe, after which he read my letter.

"Doctor," said he, "I'm sorry, but I don't believe there's a bed in the camp or a spare blanket. You didn't bring any blankets with you, I suppose? Too bad! Always ought to carry 'em in this country. Let's see! There's a small room in the back of the bank here that was occupied by a doctor from Salt Lake. He was called home suddenly and he left a spring mattress, a chair and an oil stove. If you can do anything with 'em, fly to it; it will beat sleeping on a chair in a saloon."

I thanked him, cached my suitcase in the rear room and went to see the camp. I mentioned to the cashier that I expected to pay my respects to the members of the medical profession.

"Go see Doc Biggs," said he. "He's in the loud noise in the doctor line."

The streets were crowded with miners off shift, every gambling house was filled, and the brokers' offices were packed with feverish investors, a sight calculated to make the stranger believe that Rhyoite had confidence in its boom. Easterners were not the only ones who bought Nevada mining stocks. Everywhere I looked there was gold, a strange spectacle to the tourist acquainted only with paper money.

The big yellow tewnties were stacked behind the faro layouts and piled high in the checkracks on the roulette and crap tables, a constant lure to those of a speculative frame of mind. Roulette was "the sucker game," with the percentage heavily against the player; the mule-skinners and day-laborers preferred craps and quick action upon small capital; but the seasoned gamblers, and there were hundreds of them in the camp, devoted themselves to the quiet and studious game of faro. Never before had I fully realized the meaning of the phrase, "money in circulation." It was circulating on all sides of me. Hundreds and thousands of dollars were trading owners every minute. The shouts of the crapshooters, the monotonous whining singsong of the roulette dealers, the rattling of chips, the tinkling of tiny pianos, the blare of the brass instruments and the stamping of the dancers melted into one steady roar of sound, stabbed here and there by the shrill whoop of a winner.

I withdrew from this pandemonium and called on Doctor Biggs. He had lived in Alaska and mining-camp life was no novelty to him. "How are you with a kinife?" was his first question. I explained that I had had some experince in surgical cases. "You're the fellow that I've been looking for!" said he. "I have some work up at the Miners' Hospital that has been piling up on me. Come along and help."

The Miners' Hospital was a rambling structure that, when crowded, would accomodate twenty-five cots. The operating room was about the size of a hall closet, and it was lined with white oilcloth. The tables and sterilizing equipment were modern. The surgical cases were typical of the conditions existing in a new camp where there was neither a sewer system nor drainage of any sort. Water was scarce and so was fuel, so the laundry was not sterilized in boiling water; and, as fifty or sixty men used the same towel in the bunkhouses, cases of blood poisoning were common. Carelessness in attention to small wounds meant instant infection. In two hours we operated upon five cases, three amputations among them. Doctor Biggs allowed me to do most of the work and I was aware that he was watching me closely. I did not know it then, but his invitation to assist was in the nature of a tryout.

"you would do well here," said he after we had finished. "This camp could use another surgeon" Nevada nights are cool, even in summer, and at an altitude of four thousand feet they are decidedly chilly.

I found this out when I retired on a spring mattress without covering of any sort. Toward one o'clock I found some old newspapers and made a blanket of them; but the springs cut fancy patterns in my back and there were other reasons why I could not sleep. The theory that human vitality reaches it lowest ebb between midnight and morning does not apply to a Western mining camp in boom times. During the "graveyard shift" Rhyolite seemed wider awake and noisier than ever. "Boys, get your girls! Girls, get your boys! Let her go, professor!" then the orchestra would rattle and crash and bang until the whole camp rocked to the noise.

Because I could not sleep I heard the first tap at my door. It was Doctor Biggs. "Do you want to go out and see a typhoid case?" said he. "I might as well. I can't sleep." "All right," said Biggs. "There's a man here with a team, a mule-skinner from the California-Bullfrog Mine. A woman out there has the typhoid." "Fix me ups some medicine and I'll be ready in a muniute" Before I left I asked doctor Biggs a question; "What shall I charge for this visit, doctor?" "Well," said he, "it's quite a long drive. You won't get back until afternoon. You ought to have one hundred and fifty dollars at least." "That's pretty steep, isn't it?" I gasped. "Everything is steep in this country," said the experienced practitioner.

We drove until dawn along a road as straight as if it had been laid out with a gigantic ruler. When daylight came I could see the buildings of the mine at the head of the valley, but for an hour they seemed to come no nearer, though we approached them at a smart pace. That is a trick the clear atmosphere of the dessert plays on the tenderfoot. I attended to the case, left some medicine, with instructions as to how it should be used; and at the door the woman's husband put his hand in his pocket. "Doc," said he, "what's the damage?" I swallowed hard once or twice, every physician who reads this will recall his sensations when nameing his first fee, but at last I managed to mention the amount suggested, with a rising inflection, which left the matter open to argument. To my great surprise the man did not faint. He did not even blink, but counted out the gold as unconcernedly as if the yellow twenties were silver dollars.

All the way back to Rhyolite I jingled that money in my pocket and meditated on the richness of a country where such things could happen. As soon as I reached the camp I was called upon to perform a major operation of a sort at which I had often assisted. If I had been given time in which to be afraid of the consequences I might have declined; but it was a case of life or death, in which no delay was possible. The operation was successful, and at the end of three days my hands were full and the moeny was rolling in at an astonishing rate. Perhaps I should not mention money; but it is as important a factor with a physician as with any other man. There was, however, another consideration of far greater importance. For six years I had been preparing myself to practive medicine. I had been working under other men, deferring to their judgement, listening at their councils, in short, learning my trade. I suppose, to begin with, I had as musch self-esteem as the average young man; but as the time approached when I must make good on my own resources there were days when the future frightened me. Responsibility is a burden built for a single pair of shoulders, and no man can feel quite certain that he is fit to bear it until he has felt the weight.

Every conscientious young physician experiences this period of uncertainty. It is a legacy that comes to him with his fresh-inked sheepskin, and it lasts until he has passed through a few serious cases and gained the only thing instructors cannot give him, faith in himself. A man may have every confidence in his traning and in his knowledge, but the first time he stands over a patient and ventures these things agains a human life the greatness of the stake is apt to make him fearful of his own judgement. I had no time to think about these things. Life was swift in Nevada in 1906 and death was swifter still. Emergencies arose and I met them without waiting for an introduction. I was so busy that it was several days before I woke up to the fact that I had taken the plunge and was really practicing. I had been pitchforked into the profession without warning; but the very abruptness of my entry was the best thing that ever happened to me. I gained confidence in my judgment without having time to doubt it. At the end of the three weeks I sat down in the little room behind the Bank and had a conference with myself. I weighed the advantages of two years in Europe and the long struggle in the home town against Nevada and immediate success. I considered the so called advantages of Eastern environment as opposed to the primitive surroundings of a raw, new mining camp. In Rhyolite life was life without frills, stripped down to the running gear. Every man was as good as his neighbor, if he was as good, and the mere fact that Jones had more money than Smith counted for nothing, because Jones might not have it long. Nevada money never had to take wings, every dollar of it was born with a pair of its own.

Speaking of money, I counted my cash on hand, seventeen hundred dollars for three week's work. It was in gold and heavy enough to turn the desert end of the scale. I telegraphed for my kit, ordered a supply of bill heads, and paid seventy-five dollars for one month's rent of the litte back room. (To be continued)