ed his gold.

The thought made the Coroner enthusiastic. He sent for picks, and, if we
must tell the truth, and the whole truth, he sent for whisky also. By
sunset the entire earthen floor had been dug to the depth of many feet,
and emptied outside the door. Not a farthing's-worth of gold was found.
The next day the chimney was taken down.

Lizards, dust of adobes, but nothing more. About this time, the memory
of the man just taken to the hill was held in but little respect, and a
good or bad name, so far as the over-zealous Coroner was concerned,
depended entirely on the final results of the search.

But one more thing remained to be done; that was, to remove the cabin.
Shingle by shingle, log by log, the structure was levelled. Wood-rats,
kangaroo-mice, horned toads, a rattlesnake or two that had gone into
winter-quarters under the great logs, and that was all. Not an ounce of
gold was found in the last cabin of the Missouri camp.

The flat was then staked off as mining-ground by some enterprising
strangers, and they began in the center to sluice it to the bed-rock.
They sluiced up the gulch for a month, and then down the gulch for a
month, until the whole hill-side was scalped, as it were, to the bone,
and the treasure-hunters were bankrupt, but not even so much as the
color of the dead man's gold was found.

The Forks was disgusted, and the Gopher was voted a worse man dead than
living.

It began to be noticed, however, that Baboon had mended somewhat in his
personal appearance since the death of the Gopher, and it was whispered
that he knew where the treasure was.

Some even went so far as to say that he had the whole sum of it in his
possession. "Some of these nights he'll come up a-missing," said the
butcher, striking savagely at his steel across his block. In justice to
The Forks it must be observed she was not without grounds to go upon in
her suspicions. For was not Baboon near the man at his death? And if he
could get his dog, why not get his gold also?

One night Baboon, holding tight to a tow-string, shuffled up to the
stranger in the Saloon, and timidly plucking his sleeve, said:

"Going away, I hear?"

"Yes."

"To the States?"

"Yes."

"To Missouri?"

"May be."

"Well, then, look here: come with me!"--and with an old dog bumping his
head against his heels, he led the way out the door down the gulch to
the cabin. He pulled the latch-string, entered, and finally struck a
light. Sticking