t as
a foretaste of what was to come and masked his chagrin. For Elsie's
sake, he could not afford to quarrel with Slade at this stage of the
dangerous game that must be played.

CHAPTER XVI

THE DROP

At sunset the reason for the guide's choice of route disclosed itself.
The party came to a group of small springs.

Lennon's throat had been parched for the last two hours. He spurred his
jaded pony forward to the mesquite bushes where the Navahos were
unsaddling, and slipped off to dip his empty canteen in the largest
spring.

The guide muttered gutturally to Slade who was staring up narrow-eyed at
the broken shoulder of Triple Butte. He wrenched himself about to scowl
at Lennon. The engineer had straightened and was raising the half-filled
canteen to drink.

"Hey, you!" bellowed Slade. "Drop that!"

The bullying command was more than Lennon could endure. He waved the
canteen ironically at the trader, turned half away, and put the opening
to his mouth. Slade whipped out his revolver and fired. The canteen flew
out of Lennon's hand and thumped down upon the stone beside the spring.

For a moment Lennon was so astonished that he stood motionless, staring
down at the canteen. The water gushed and gurgled through the holes
pierced through the middle of the vessel by the heavy bullet.

The first coherent thought of the engineer was that Slade had intended
to murder him. He put his hand to the pocket that held Farley's revolver
and turned to face Slade. The trader's weapon was already back in its
holster. His stained teeth showed in a wide grin.

"May I ask what you mean by shooting at me?" demanded Lennon.

Slade's mirth burst out in a roar of laughter.

"Shooting at you--shooting _now_?" he jibed when he could speak. "You
must figger I'm plumb loco. Any fool ought to know anybody would hold
off till you located the mine. Even supposing I was going to plant you,
I'd wait, wouldn't I, huh?"

Lennon saw the point even clearer than the trader intended. He was
supposed to take the piece of grim humour as a reassurance. The derisive
banter was an unintentional notification that he could expect to be
murdered immediately after the finding of the lost lode. But until then
he must continue to play the dupe.

"I must confess I do not fancy your Western jokes," he said. "You have
spoiled a perfectly good canteen."

"Happens you're worth more to me than it; and you was dead set on
filling up with that poison