ir of the tunnel, which
sadly needed a fan, and then he hurled his hammer to the ground and felt
his way out to daylight. What was the use of it all; where did it get
him to, anyway; this ceaseless, grinding toil? Murray's camp had shut
down, the promoters had vanished, Pinal was deader than ever; he
gathered up his tools and stored them in his cave, then sat down to
write her a letter. Nothing less than the truth would win her back now
and he confessed his shortcomings humbly; after which he told her that
the town was too lonely and he was leaving, too. He sealed it in an
envelope and addressed it with her name and when he was sure that Old
Bunk was not looking he slipped in and gave it to her mother.

"I'm going away," he said, "and I may not be back. Will you send that on
to Drusilla?"

"Yes," she smiled and hid it in her dress; but as he started for the
door she stopped him.

"You might like to know," she said, "that Drusilla has received an
engagement. She is substitute soprano in a new Opera Company that is
being organized to tour the big cities. I'm sorry you didn't see her."

"Yes," answered Denver, "I'm sorry myself--but that never bought a man
anything. Just send her the letter and--well, goodby."

He blundered out the door and down the steps, and there stretched the
road before him. In the evening he was as far as Whitlow's Well and a
great weight seemed lifted from his breast. He was free again, free to
wander where he pleased, free to make friends with any that he met--for
if the prophecy was not true in regard to his mine it was not true
regarding his friends. And how could any woman, by cutting a pack of
cards and consulting the signs of the zodiac, predict how a man would
die? Denver made himself at home with a party of hobo miners who had
come in from the railroad below, and that night they sat up late,
cracking jokes and telling stories of every big camp in the West. It was
the old life again, the life that he knew and loved, drifting on from
camp to camp with every man his friend. Yet as he stretched out that
night by the flickering fire he almost regretted the change. He was free
from the great fear, free to make friends with whom he would; but, to
win back the love of the beautiful young artist, he would have given up
his freedom without a sigh.

His sleep that night was broken by strange dreams and by an automobile
that went thundering by, and in the morning as they cooked a mulligan
togethe