to
ponder his mistakes. The first, of course, was in taking too much for
granted when Big Boy had walked into town; and the second was in ever
refusing a hobo when he asked for something to eat. True it amounted in
the aggregate to a heart-breaking amount--almost enough to support his
family--but a man lost his luck when he turned a hobo down and Old Bunk
decided against it. Never again, he resolved, would he restrain his good
wife from following the dictates of her heart, and that meant that every
hobo that walked into town would get a square meal in his kitchen. Where
the cash was coming from to buy this expensive food and pay for the
freighting across the desert was a matter for the future to decide, but
as he dwelt on his problem a sudden ray of hope roused Bunker Hill from
his reverie. Speaking of money, the ex-hobo, walking along in front of
him, had over eight hundred dollars in his hip pocket--and he claimed to
be a miner!

"Say!" began Bunker as they came in sight of town, "d'ye see those old
workings over there? That's the site of the celebrated Lost Burro
Mine--turned out over four millions in silver!"

"Yeah, so I've heard," answered Big Boy wearily, "been closed down
though, for twenty years."

"I'm the owner of that property," went on Bunker pompously. "Andrew Hill
is my name and I'd be glad to show you round."

"Nope," said the future prospect, "I'm too danged tired. I'm going down
to the crick and rest."

"Come up to the house," proposed Bunker Hill cordially, "and meet my
wife and family. I'm sure Mrs. Hill will be glad to see you back--she
was afraid that something might happen to you."

The hobo glanced up with a swift, cynical smile and turned off down the
trail to the creek.

"I see you've got your eye on my roll," he observed and Bunker Hill
shrugged regretfully.

CHAPTER IV

CASH

It was evident to Bunker Hill that no common measures would serve to
interest this young capitalist in his district; and yet there he was, a
big husky young miner, with eight hundred dollars in his pocket. That
eight hundred dollars, if wisely expended, might open up a bonanza in
Pinal; and in any case, if it was spent with him, it would help to pay
the freight. Old Bunk chopped open a bale of hay with an ax and gave his
horse a feed; and, after he had given his prospect time to rest, he
drifted off down towards the creek.

The creek at Pinal was one of those vagrant Western streams that appear
an