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blue mantle, tipping his hat and wishing her a good day.
    She studied him with a sidelong glance, in no hurry to respond at once, but in no hurry to depart, either.
    Ben added, “We’re cabelleros , bound for California.”
    The young woman broke into a smile at this, and said something in return, a half-mocking, half-welcoming statement in Spanish.
    Not to be outdone, Ben tried out a little more Spanish of his own, something he must have worked up from the phrase book I had seen him studying on board the ship.
    He uttered an entire sentence in the language, and she was talking right back.
    The mules and jungle-weary travelers plodded past us on the trail. “Are you coming along, Ben,” I said with a degree of exasperation, “or are you going to talk this woman to death?”
    We had walked on a good distance before Ben remarked, “Willie, I believe that young senorita took a sort of passing liking to me.”
    â€œIf there wasn’t a real woman around,” I said, “you’d talk to a statue, or a picture on a wall.”
    â€œIs it possible,” queried Ben with his usual good humor, “that you envy me my charms?”
    I would not have used such lofty phrasing. It was true, however, that I was more than a little jealous of my friend’s way with womenfolk.
    â€œNot at all,” I lied.
    â€œNot even a little?” Ben asked.
    I am agreeable enough to look at, I have been told, with russet hair and eyes the color of well water. But when I gaze into a mirror I see someone staring right back, unsure of his own worth. A powerful shyness makes me feel speechless around some ladies. Elizabeth was the only young woman I’d ever known who took the trouble to confide in me. I could close my eyes and see her face.
    Aaron Sweetland sat up as we came within the outlying district of Panama City. The early-afternoon sun glowed on red-tiled roofs, and vines climbed tall, crumbling walls. Cows lowed, goats skittered, and scrawny mules traversed narrow cobbled streets.
    â€œBy God, fellows,” said Aaron Sweetland, his voice weak but joyful, “I believe we’re near Panama City!”

CHAPTER 8
    The town’s jungle approach was defended by an ancient wall. A rusting cannon gaped out over the jungle vista, shrouded by bright green vines.
    Dwelling shacks and booths selling food sprawled toward the outlying fields, well beyond the decaying fortifications. Parrots on perches called out greetings in Spanish as we approached, and shopkeepers held up tall displays festooned with samples of their wares, everything from soap to shoes. Church bells echoed all around.
    A sweet smell thickened the air, tobacco leaf and molasses, with an undercurrent of manure. The scent of burning sugarcane drifted across the plazas. Bins displayed gleaming mounds of citrus fruits, lemons and small, perfectly round oranges. Iron-studded doors and rust-grilled windows protected some of the stately buildings from our curious eyes. Stalls were decorated with fluttering, bright ribbons, sausages and bright bottles of colored liquors. Nearly every citizen we beheld was smoking tobacco, the lace-shawled ladies holding small, dark cigars, the men drawing on cheroots.
    Colonel Legrand announced that our trunks and equipment would be taken to the Uncle Sam Hotel.
    I was sorry to take leave of the old soldier, and I said so.
    â€œYou’ll forget all about me and this pitiful jungle,” he said with a laugh. “You’re off to see the elephant.”
    That was the way people referred to the California adventure. Newspapers would recount that a newly formed company was “Off to See the Elephant,” and the few just returned from San Francisco would hang “I’ve Seen the Elephant!” from a window. Whether you found riches or not, no one wanted to miss out on the world-shaking experience of the rush for the precious metal.
    The Tioga Company paused at the three-story