In most ways the old scout’s wide experience gave his dicta value.  In one assertion, however, he was wide of the truth, or short of it.  So far from things being as bad as they could be, the rapid events of that same morning proved that still more confusion was to ensue, and that speedily.

There came riding into the post from the westward a little party of old-time mountain men, driving their near-spent mounts and packs at a speed unusual even in that land of vast distances.  They were headed by a man well known in that vicinity who, though he had removed to California since the fur days, made annual pilgrimage to meet the emigrant trains at Fort Hall in order to do proselyting for California, extolling the virtues of that land and picturing in direst fashion the horrors of the road thence to Oregon and the worthlessness of Oregon if ever attained.  “Old Greenwood” was the only name by which he was known.  He was an old, old man, past eighty then, some said, with a deep blue eye, long white hair, a long and unkempt beard and a tongue of unparalleled profanity.  He came in now, shouting and singing, as did the men of the mountains making the Rendezvous in the old days.

“How, Greenwood!  What brings ye here so late?” demanded his erstwhile crony, Jim Bridger, advancing, tin cup in hand, to meet him.  “Light.  Eat.  Special, drink.  How—­to the old times!”

“Old times be damned!” exclaimed Old Greenwood.  “These is new times.”

He lifted from above the chafed hips of his trembling horse two sacks of something very heavy.

“How much is this worth to ye?” he demanded of Bridger and the trader.  “Have ye any shovels?  Have ye any picks?  Have ye flour, meal, sugar—­anything?”

“Gold!” exclaimed Jim Bridger.  “Kit Carson did not lie!  He never did!”

And they did not know how much this was worth.  They had no scales for raw gold, nor any system of valuation for it.  And they had no shovels and no pickaxes; and since the families had come they now had very little flour at Fort Hall.

But now they had the news!  This was the greatest news that ever came to old Fort Hall—­the greatest news America knew for many a year, or the world—­the news of the great gold strikes in California.

Old Greenwood suddenly broke out, “Have we left the mines an’ come this fur fer nothin’?  I tell ye, we must have supplies!  A hundred dollars fer a pick!  A hundred dollars fer a shovel!  A hundred dollars fer a pair o’ blankets!  An ounce fer a box of sardines, damn ye!  An ounce fer half a pound o’ butter!  A half ounce fer a aig!  Anything ye like fer anything that’s green!  Three hundred fer a gallon o’ likker!  A ounce for a box o’ pills!  Eight hundred fer a barrel o’ flour!  Same fer pork, same fer sugar, same fer coffee!  Damn yer picayune hides, we’ll show ye what prices is!  What’s money to us?  We can git the pure gold that money’s made out of, an’ git it all we want!  Hooray fer Californy!”