abided with him and he used to spend long months alone in the
wilderness searching for the pure love of search.

Just before one of these expeditions he was driving out of Tombstone
with Gus Barron, another old-timer and a close friend, and as they
went down the Fairbank road they reached the spot where the three
great boulder knolls rise beside the dry wash. Schiefflin drew rein.

"This," he said to Barron, "is the place where I camped that night
when the Apaches almost got me, the night before I found the stringer
on the hill. And when I die I want to be buried here with my canteen
and my prospector's pick beside me."

So when he died up in canyon City, Oregon, just about twenty years
after he had made that discovery, they brought his body back and
buried it on the summit of the knoll. And they erected a great pyramid
of granite boulders on the spot for his monument.

And within sight of that lonely tomb the town stands out on the
sky-line, commemorating by its name the steadfastness of Ed
Schiefflin, prospector.

TOMBSTONE'S WILD OATS

In the good old days of Indians and bad men the roaring town of
Tombstone had a man for breakfast every morning. And there were
mornings when the number ran as high as half a dozen.

That is the way the old-timers speak of it, and there is a fond pride
in their voices when they allude to the subject; the same sort of
pride one betrays when he tells of the wild oats sowed by a
gray-haired friend during his lusty youth. For Tombstone has settled
down to middle-aged conventionality and is peaceable enough to-day for
any man.

But in the early eighties!

Apaches were raiding; claim-jumpers were battling; road-agents were
robbing stages; bad men were slaying one another in the streets; and,
taking it altogether, life was stepping to a lively tune.

Geronimo's naked warriors were industrious. Now they would steal upon
a pair of miners doing assessment work within sight of town. Now they
would bag a teamster on the road from Tucson, or raid a ranch, or
attack the laborers who were laying the water company's pipe-line to
the Huachucas. Hardly a week passed but a party of hard-eyed horsemen
rode out from Tombstone with their rifles across their saddle-bows,
escorting a wagon which had been sent to bring in the bodies of the
latest victims.

In the two years after the first rush from Tucson to the rich silver
district which Ed Schiefflin had discovered, there was much
clai