The Tragic Cost of the Miner's Den

That winter we were in camp on Panther Creek was one never to be forgotten even by a miner who had blasted rocks in the hills. No one was making a fair living. It was not enough that times were hard, but the blacklegs came down from Thunder Bend and made themselves at home. They were well stocked with whisky and gambling devices, and more than one of our men saw his hard-earned dollars pass into the hands of these hyenas. One of the best-natured men in camp was a man from Connecticut, generally known as 'Clock Jones.' He was quiet and God-fearing, saving money to return home to his wife. However, he had once been a drunkard, and perhaps the tears of a loving wife had rescued him. One day, he entered the shanty of the worst gambler of all. He would not touch cards, and we had never seen him taste liquor. Yet, half an hour later, he was drinking and losing his money. A neighbor, Williams, was sent to retrieve him. Jones was fighting drunk and, when entreated, fired his pistol. He did not kill Williams, but the flash blinded him forever. Struck by the horror of what he had done, Jones took his own life.