San Andreas and done
spoiled our night's rest. But I got the hosses."

"Hosses seems to be his failin'," said the big man.

"So some folks say. I'm one of 'em."

"How are the folks up Antelope way?"

"Kinda permanent, as usual. I hear Panhandle's drifted south again.
Wishful, he shoots craps, reg'lar."

Scott nodded, shifted the coffee-pot and sat down on the edge of his
bunk. "Got any smokin'?" he queried presently.

Bartley offered the miner a cigar. "I'm afraid it's broken," apologized
Bartley.

"That's all right. I was goin' to town this mornin', to get some tobacco
and grub. But this will help." And doubling the cigar Scott thrust it in
his mouth and chewed it with evident satisfaction.

The gray edge of dawn crept into the room. Scott blew out the light and
opened the door.

Bartley felt suddenly sleepy and he drowsed and nodded, realizing that
Scott and Cheyenne were talking, and that the faint aroma of coffee
drifted toward him, mingling with the chill, fresh air of morning. He
pulled himself together and drank the coffee and ate some bacon. From
time to time he glanced at Scott, fascinated by the miner's tremendous
forearms, his mighty chest and shoulders. Even Cheyenne, who was a
fair-sized man, appeared like a boy beside the miner. Bartley wondered
that such tremendous strength should be isolated, hidden back there
behind the foothills. Yet Scott himself, easy-going and dryly humorous,
was evidently content right where he was.

Later the miner showed Bartley about the diggings, quietly proud of his
establishment, and enthusiastic about the unfailing supply of water--in
fact, Scott talked more about water than he did about gold. Bartley
realized that the big miner would have been a misfit in town, that he
belonged in the rugged hills from which he wrested a scant six dollars a
day by herculean toil.

In a past age, Scott would have been a master builder of castles or of
triremes or a maker of armor, but never a fighting man. It was evident
that the miner was, despite his great strength, a man of peace. Bartley
rather regretted, for some romantic reason or other, that the big miner
was not a fighting man.

Yet when they returned to the shack, where Cheyenne sat smoking, Bartley
learned that Big Joe Scott had a reputation in his own country. That was
when Scott suggested that they needed sleep. He spread a blanket-roll on
the cabin floor for Cheyenne and offered Bartley his bunk. Then Scott
pick