JIMVILLE 



the very spirit of the meaning of that 

 country when you see Little Pete feeding 

 his sheep in the red, choked maw of an old 

 vent, a kind of silly pastoral gentleness 

 that glozes over an elemental violence. 

 Beyond the craters rise worn, auriferous 

 hills of a quiet sort, tumbled together; a 

 valley full of mists ; whitish green scrub ; 

 and bright, small, panting lizards ; then 

 Jimville. 



The town looks to have spilled out of 

 Squaw Gulch, and that, in fact, is the se- 

 quence of its growth. It began around 

 the Bully Boy and Theresa group of mines 

 midway up Squaw Gulch, spreading down 

 to the smelter at the mouth of the ravine. 

 The freight wagons dumped their loads as 

 near to the mill as the slope allowed, and 

 Jimville grew in between. Above the 

 Gulch begins a pine wood with sparsely 

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