I noticed he was near blubberin'. I
expect it's 'Adios, Senor Miller.' He's got two years more to serve, and
after that he'll have another nice long term to serve for robbin' the
stage. All I wish is we'd done the job more thorough and sent some
friends of his along with him. Well, that's up to Applegate."

"I'm glad it is," said Joyce emphatically.

"Any news to-day from Jackpot Number Three?" asked the president of that
company.

"Bob Hart sent in to get some supplies and had a note left for me at the
post-office," Miss Joyce mentioned, a trifle annoyed at herself because a
blush insisted on flowing into her cheeks. "He says it's the biggest
thing he ever saw, but it's going to be awf'ly hard to control. Where
_is_ that note? I must have put it somewhere."

Emerson's eyes flickered mischief. "Oh, well, never mind about the note.
That's private property, I reckon."

"I'm sure if I can find it--"

"I'll bet my boots you cayn't, though," he teased.

"Dad! What will Mr. Sanders think? You know that's nonsense. Bob wrote
because I asked him to let me know."

"Sure. Why wouldn't the secretary and field superintendent of the Jackpot
Company keep the daughter of the president informed? I'll have it read
into the minutes of our next board meetin' that it's in his duties to
keep you posted."

"Oh, well, if you want to talk foolishness," she pouted.

"There's somethin' else I'm goin' to have put into the minutes of the
next meetin', Dave," Crawford went on. "And that's yore election as
treasurer of the company. I want officers around me that I can trust,
son."

"I don't know anything about finance or about bookkeeping," Dave said.

"You'll learn. We'll have a bookkeeper, of course. I want some one for
treasurer that's level-haided and knows how to make a quick turn when he
has to, some one that uses the gray stuff in his cocoanut. We'll fix a
salary when we get goin'. You and Bob are goin' to have the active
management of this concern. Cattle's my line, an' I aim to stick to it.
Him and you can talk it over and fix yore duties so's they won't
conflict. Burns, of course, will run the actual drillin'. He's an A1
man. Don't let him go."

Dave was profoundly touched. No man could be kinder to his own son, could
show more confidence in him, than Emerson Crawford was to one who had no
claims upon him.

He murmured a dry "Thank you"; then, feeling this to be inadequate,
added, "I'll try to see you don't regret this."