brilliant yellow, the mezquites hung out tassels of golden fuzz and
the giant cactus donned its crown of orange blossoms. Even the
iron-woods flaunted bloom and the barren, sandy washes turned green with
six-weeks grass. It was a time when rabbits gamboled, when mockingbirds
sang by moonlight and all the world turned young. Denver chafed at his
confinement, one of his Mexicans broke his parole, the hobo miners went
swinging past; and just as the last of his courage was waning Bunker
Hill came riding down the road. He was on his big bay, yet not out after
cattle--he was coming straight towards him. Denver caught his breath,
and waited.

CHAPTER XXVIII

PAROLE

"Mornin', Denver," said Bunker Hill, "here's a letter that come for
you--I forgot to send it down."

He fumbled in his pocket and Denver's heart stood still, but it was only
his check from the smelter. He slipped it into his shirt without even
glancing at the big total and looked up at Bunker expectantly.

"Well?" he prompted and Old Bunk twisted in the saddle before he began
to talk.

"How much did you get for your shipment?" he inquired but Denver
shrugged impatiently.

"What do I give a damn?" he demanded. "What's up? What you got on your
mind?"

"Big stuff," replied Bunker, "but I want you to listen to me--they's no
use running off at the head."

"Who's running off at the head? Go on and shoot your wad. Is it
something about my mine?"

"Yes--and mine," answered Bunker. "I don't know whether you know it, but
your property apexes the Lost Burro. And another thing, silver has gone
up. But Pinal is just as dead as it was a year ago. The whole camp is
waiting on you."

"Well, what do you want me to do? Get a parole and give Murray my mine?"

"No, just get a parole--and then we'll get you a pardon. I'll tell you,
Denver, the Dutchman has begun to talk and it seems he saw your fight.
He's told several people that you never pulled your gun, just struck out
at the crowd with your fists. And if hints and winks count for anything
with him he knows who it was that killed Meacham. He says he was hit
from behind. I've tried everything, Denver, to make that Dutchman talk
or put something down on paper; but he's scared so bad of Murray, and
mebbe of his gun-men, that he won't say a word, unless he's drunk. Now
here's the proposition--old Murray has had you railroaded, and he's sure
going to squeeze you until you let go of that claim. Why not sell out