back towards the town and then,
big eyed and silent, he started down the trail, still looking for some
sign that might guide him.

But other eyes than his had been sweeping the rim and as he came up the
trail Bunker Hill appeared and walked along beside him.

"I'll just show you those claims," he said smiling genially, "it'll save
you a little time, and maybe a pair of shoes. And just to prove that I'm
on the square I'll take you to the best one first."

He led on up the street and as they passed a stone cabin the door was
yanked violently open and then as suddenly slammed shut.

"That's the Dutchman," grinned Bunker, "he wakes up grouchy every
morning. What did you think of that rock he showed you?"

"Good enough," replied Denver, "it was rotten with gold. But from the
looks of the pieces it's only a stringer--I doubt if it shows any
walls."

"No, nor anything else much," answered Bunker slightingly, "you can't
even call it a stringer. It's a kind of broken seam, going flat into the
hill--the Mexicans have been after it for years. Every time there's a
rain the Professor will go up there and wash out a little gold in the
gulch; but a Chinaman couldn't work it, and make it show a profit, if he
had to dig out his ore. Of course it's all right, if you think gold is
the ticket, but you wait till I show you this claim of mine--next to the
famous Lost Burro Mine.

"You know the Lost Burro--there she lays, right there--and they took out
four million dollars in silver before the bonanza pinched out. At first
they hauled their ore to the Gulf of California and shipped it to
Swansea, Wales, and afterwards they built a kind of furnace and roasted
their ore right here. It was refractory ore, mixed up with zinc and
antimony; but with everything against them, and all kinds of bum
management, she paid from the very first day. All full of water now, or
I'd show you around; but some mine in its time, believe me. I wouldn't
sell it for a million dollars."

"Five hundred is my limit," observed Denver with a grin and Bunker
slapped his leg.

"Say," he said, "did I tell you that story about the deacon that got
stung in a horse-trade? Well, this was back east, where I used to live,
before I emigrated for the good of the country, and there was an old
Methodist deacon that was as smart as they make 'em when it came to
driving a bargain. He and the livery-stable keeper had made a few swaps
and one was about as sharp as the other; unt