The lantern hanging from the branch above him shone sufficiently bright for him to see clearly the blank page in front of him, but it didn’t cast a similar brightness into his weary brain. Never before had he experienced so much difficulty putting his thoughts onto paper. He had written while dodging cinders from Milwaukee’s great fire in 1892; he had written in the middle of the 1894 miners’ riot in Pennsylvania that left eleven people dead; he had written while huddled in a bombed-out school during Cuba’s revolt against Spain in 1895; he had written while accompanying William McKinley’s presidential campaign just a year ago in 1896. Now, in the great gold rush of 1897, he had reached the point where he couldn’t write while comfortably seated under a tree, safe under a peaceful and starry sky. The task of concentrating was made no easier by the noise coming from the neighboring campsite, which was growing more raucous as the evening wore on. The ladies next door were doing a rousing business—not surprising given the circumstances.
