hese mountains
in nearly as many days, don't it?" remarked the man, as he began to
loosen the saddle girths and to untie the sacks of grub that were
fastened on behind.

"How is that?" queried Mr. Allen.

"Why, wasn't it you that went up the trail to the top of Cheyenne the
other day?" questioned the man. Then, without waiting for a reply, he
went on: "We was doin' an assessment up there that day an' seed you as
you stood talkin' to that crusty old prospector that works that tunnel."

"O yes," said Mr. Allen, "so you are the men that were up there by that
black dump?"

"Yep, we're the fellers, Jim an' me."

"Are you going to do more assessment work here in this canyon?"
questioned Ham.

"Yep, we've got two assessments to do here somewhere," returned the
stranger. "This canyon, or at least part of it, belongs to a real estate
company in Colorado Springs. I don't believe there is any gold here, but
they are holdin' the property as an investment. Seems like they expect
sometime to open this canyon to tourist trade to see some swell falls
that's up in it somewheres."

"O, is that so?" returned Mr. Allen. "Then you don't think there is any
gold here at all?"

"Nope, I don't, an' I'll tell ye why. Gold, as it's found in these parts,
runs in a strata of quartz. Now, there ain't no quartz in this range,
except on Cheyenne. The old-timer down at the inn says that there's gold
up here, an' he knows where it is, but you can't take no stock in these
old fellers. They're daft on the gold question."

Mr. Allen looked at his watch, then, turning to the fellows, he suggested
that they had better start for home. After a little more conversation the
two parties separated, one to camp for the night in the cabin, the other
to return to the city.

Willis motioned Mr. Allen to the back of the line as they worked their
way down the trail and into the park.

"The plot thickens," began Willis, with a queer little smile on his face.
Then with a slight chuckle he added: "To be more accurate, I suppose I
should say 'The plot thins.' Those are the two men that were at my
uncle's house the morning we started on this trip, and my uncle drew that
sketch--I'm sure of it. The heading was torn from the paper, but I feel
it in my bones that he was the artist. Those are the men that were doing
the assessment on my father's old claim on Cheyenne for my uncle. He
never dreamed of my seeing them here and knowing they were in his employ.
I under