e daily heart-ache and the
ignominy of his task as he contemplated the wealth that awaited him.
Yes, the mine was still his, though he was herded with common felons and
compelled to build a road for Murray; it was his and the law would
protect him, the same law that had sent him to prison. And he was a
prisoner by choice now for both the warden and the parole clerk had
recommended him heartily for parole.

They treated him like a friend, like a big, wrong-headed boy who was
still sound and good at heart; and he knew that when he went to them and
applied for a parole they would recommend it at once to the Board. But
he was playing a deep game, one that had come to him suddenly when
Murray had suggested a parole, for by refusing to accept his freedom he
made the state his guardian and the receiver of his coveted property. It
was safe, and he could wait; and when the time was ripe he could apply
to the Governor for a pardon. A pardon would remove the taint of
dishonor and restore him to honest citizenship; but a paroled man was
known for an ex-con everywhere--he might as well be back in the
road-gang. Yet it was hard on his pride when the automobiles rushed past
and the passengers looked back and stared, it was hard to have the guard
always watching the gang for fear that some crook might decamp; and only
the thought that he was working out his destiny gave him courage to play
out his hand.

But how wonderfully had the prophecy of Mother Trigedgo been justified
by the course of events! Not a year before he had come over the Globe
trail in pursuit of Slogger Meacham, and had discovered the Place of
Death. It rose before him now, a solid black wall, and within its shadow
lay the mine of the prophecy, the precious Silver Treasure. He had
chosen the silver treasure, and the yellow chalcopyrites had added its
wealth of copper. And now he but awaited the end of his long ordeal and
the reward of his courage and constancy. Both the silver and gold
treasures were destined to be his; and Drusilla--but there he paused.
Old Bunk had avoided him, Drusilla had not written; yet he had been
careful not to reveal his affection. Not once had he asked for her, only
once had he written; yet perhaps that one letter had defeated him. He
had acknowledged his love, humbly admitted his faults, and begged her to
try to forgive him. Even that might have cost him her love.

The spring came on warmer, all the palo verde trees burst out in masses
of