loose on yuh before yuh went an'
married her!" Barney congratulated Casey, slapping his great thigh and
laughing loudly. "She shore is handy with her tongue--that old girl.
Ever hear a sawmill workin' overtime? That's her--rippin' through knots
an' never blowin' the whistle fer quittin' time. I never knowed a man
could have as many faults as what she used t' name over fer me." He
drained his cup and sighed with great content. "At that, I stayed with
her seven months and fourteen days," he boasted. "I admit, two of them
months I was laid up with a busted ankle an' shoulder blade. Tunnel
caved in on me."

They talked late that night and were comrades, brothers, partners share
and share alike before they slept. Next morning Casey tried again to
start the Ford; couldn't; and yielded to Barney's argument that burros
were better than a car for prospectin' in that rough country. They
overhauled Casey's outfit, took all the grub and as much else as the
burros could carry and debated seriously what point in the Panamints
they should aim for.

"Where's that there Joshuay tree pointin' to?" Casey asked finally.
"She's the biggest and oldest in the bunch, and ever since I've been
here she's looked like she's got somethin' on 'er mind. Whadda yuh
think, Barney?"

Barney walked around the yucca, stood behind the extended arm, squinted
at the sharp-peaked butte with the black capping, toward which the
gaunt tree seemed to point. He spat out a stale quid of tobacco and
took a fresh one, squinted again toward the butte and looked at Casey.

"She's country I never prospected in, back in there. I've follered
poorer advice than a Joshuay. Le's try it a whirl."

Thus it came to pass that Casey Ryan forsook his Ford for a strange
partner with two burros and a clouded past, and fared forth across the
barren foothills with no better guidance than the rigid, outstretched
limb of a great, gaunt Joshua tree.

CHAPTER THREE

In a still sunny gulch which shadows would presently fill to the brim,
Casey Ryan was reaching, soiled bandanna in his hand, to pull a pot of
bubbling coffee from the coals,--a pot now blackened with the smoke of
many campfires to prove how thoroughly a part of the open land it had
become. Something nipped at his right shoulder, and at the same
instant ticked the coffeepot and overturned it into a splutter of steam
and hot ashes. The spiteful crack of a rifle shot followed close.
Casey ducked behind a