k.

Junipero Street was not the usual crooked lane that serves as the main
thoroughfare for business in a mining town. For Malapi had been a cowtown
before the discovery of oil. It lay on the wide prairie and not in a
gulch. The street was broad and dusty, flanked by false-front stores,
flat-roofed adobes, and corrugated iron buildings imported hastily since
the first boom.

At the Stag Horn corral Dave hired a horse and saddled for a night ride.
On his way to the Jackpot he passed a dozen outfits headed for the new
strike. They were hauling supplies of food, tools, timbers, and machinery
to the oil camp. Out of the night a mule skinner shouted a profane and
drunken greeting to him. A Mexican with a burro train gave him a
low-voiced "Buenos noches, senor."

A fine mist of oil began to spray him when he was still a mile away from
the well. It grew denser as he came nearer. He found Bob Hart, in
oilskins and rubber boots, bossing a gang of scrapers, giving directions
to a second one building a dam across a draw, and supervising a third
group engaged in siphoning crude oil from one sump to another. From head
to foot Hart and his assistants were wet to the skin with the black crude
oil.

"'Lo, Dave! One sure-enough little spouter!" Bob shouted cheerfully.
"Number Three's sure a-hittin' her up. She's no cougher--stays right
steady on the job. Bet I've wallowed in a million barrels of the stuff
since mo'nin'." He waded through a viscid pool to Dave and asked a
question in a low voice. "What's the good word?"

"We had a little luck," admitted Sanders, then plumped out his budget of
news. "Got the express money back, captured one of the robbers, forced a
confession out of him, and left him with the sheriff."

Bob did an Indian war dance in hip boots. "You're the darndest go-getter
ever I did see. Tell it to me, you ornery ol' scalawag."

His friend told the story of the day so far as it related to the robbery.

"I could 'a' told you Miller would weaken when you had the rope round his
soft neck. Shorty would 'a' gone through and told you-all where to get
off at."

"Yes. Miller's yellow. He didn't quit with the robbery, Bob. Must have
been scared bad, I reckon. He admitted that he killed George Doble--by
accident, he claimed. Says Doble ran in front of him while he was
shooting at me."

"Have you got that down on paper?" demanded Hart.

"Yes."

Bob caught his friend's hand. "I reckon the long lane has turned for yo