t worth it. The vein 's
pinched down until we ain't even getting day laborer's wages out of
it--and it's October now."

October! October--and winter on the way. October--and only a month
until the time when Harry must face a jury on four separate charges,
any one of which might send him to Canon City for the rest of his days;
Harry was young no longer. October--and in the dreamy days of summer,
Fairchild had believed that October would see him rich. But now the
hills were brown with the killing touch of frost; the white of the
snowy range was creeping farther and farther over the mountains; the
air was crisp with the hint of zero soon to come; the summer was dead,
and Fairchild's hopes lay inert beside it. He was only working now
because he had determined to work. He was only laboring because a
great, strong, big-shouldered man had come from Cornwall to help him
and was willing to fight it out to the end. October--and the
announcement had said that a certain girl would be married in the late
fall, a girl who never looked in his direction any more, who had
allowed her name to become affiliated with that of the Rodaines, now
nearing the task of completing their two million. October--month of
falling leaves and dying dreams, month of fragrant beauties gone to
dust, the month of the last, failing fight against the clutch of grim,
all-destroying winter. And Fairchild was sagging in defeat just as the
leaves were falling from the shaking aspens, as the moss tendrils were
curling into brittle, brown things of death. October!

For a long moment, Fairchild said nothing, then as Harry came from the
staging, he moved to the older man's side.

"I--I did n't quite catch the idea," came at last. Harry pointed with
his sledge.

"I 've been noticing the vein. It keeps turning to the left. It
struck me that it might 'ave branched off from the main body and that
there 's a bigger vein over there some'eres. We 'll just 'ave to make
a try for it. It's our only chance."

"And if we fail to find it there?"

"We 'll put a couple of 'oles in the foot wall and see what we strike.
And then--"

"Yes--?"

"If it ain't there--we 're whipped!"

It was the first time that Harry had said the word seriously.
Fairchild pretended not to hear. Instead, he picked up a drill, looked
at its point, then started toward the small forge which they had
erected just at the foot of the little raise leading to the stope.
There Harry joi