ft her,
weeping. It was best, after all, for how could he comfort her? And he
could see McGraw's dust down the road.

"I'm going to meet McGraw!" he called back from the steps and went
bounding off down the trail.

CHAPTER XVII

BROKE

McGraw, the freighter, was a huge, silent man from whom long years on
the desert had almost taken the desire for speech. He came jangling up
the road, his wagons grinding and banging, his horses straining wearily
in their collars; and as Denver ran to meet him he threw on the brakes
and sat blinking solemnly at his inquisitor.

"Where's my powder?" demanded Denver looking over the load, "and say,
didn't you bring that coal? I don't see that steel I ordered, either!"

"No," said McGraw and then, after a silence: "Murray wouldn't receive
your ore."

"Wouldn't receive it!" yelled Denver, "why, what was the matter with
it--did the sacks get broke going down?"

"No," answered McGraw, "the sacks were all right. He said the ore was no
good."

"Like hell!" scoffed Denver, "that ore that I sent him? It would run a
thousand ounces to the ton!"

McGraw wrinkled his brows and looked up at the sun.

"Well," he said, "I guess I'll be going."

"But--hey, wait!" commanded Denver, scarcely believing his ears, "didn't
he send me any grub, or anything?"

"Nope," answered McGraw, "he wouldn't give me nawthin'. He said the ore
was no good. Come, boys!" And he threw off the brakes with a bang.

The chains tightened with a jerk, the wheelers set their feet; then the
lead wagon heaved forward, the trail-wagon followed and Denver was alone
on the road. His brain was in a whirl, he had lost all volition, even
the will to control his wild thoughts; until suddenly he burst out in a
fit of cursing--of Murray, of McGraw, of everything. McGraw had been a
fool, he should have demanded the supplies anyway; and Murray was just
trying to job him. He knew he was broke and had not had the ore assayed,
and he was taking advantage of the fact. He had refused the ore in order
to leave him flat and compel him to abandon his mine; and then he,
Murray, would slip over with his gun-man and take possession himself.
Denver struck his leg and looked up and down the road, and then he
started off for Moroni.

It was sixty miles, across a scorching desert with only two wells on the
road; but Denver arrived at Whitlow's an hour after sunset, and he was
at Desert Wells before dawn. A great fire seemed to consume