d his
"rheumatics" to "come on."

For protection he bought a compass with which we went over proposed
camp sites. If the compass showed variation or disturbance, he
abandoned the site. And once when the compass was out of order, he
camped, unconsciously, at a spot where there was iron. Then as his
rheumatism developed he found that his watch had stopped. Later when
his aches at last left him, his watch started ticking of its own
accord. His watch was so sympathetic that it couldn't bear to run when
he couldn't walk! But when he felt good, it was so joyous it ran ahead
to make up for lost time. Then he set it right by squinting at the sun!

No matter what queer beliefs prospectors have they are never
disgruntled.

I had camped near the old Flattop trail at a spot where, sometime
before, I had cached some food supplies. It was early in September.
No wind reached the bottom of the canyon where I slept beside my fire.
I awoke at the sound of a voice and sleepily I opened my eyes. No one
would be traveling at night--surely I had been dreaming. But no--there
was movement.

"If I kin git the hole ten feet deeper before snow flies, I'll have
something to show that ole skinflint at the lake."

I sat up wondering. Then I remembered the voice. It was old Sutton, a
prospector I had known for many years--one of the typical, plodding,
babbling old fellows who live only in their dreams.

My camp was in the shelter of small spruces while my visitor stood in
the open. Playfully I picked up an empty tin can and tossed it into
the air, that it might fall close beside him. At the fall of the can,
the man spun around suddenly, and, walking over to it, prodded it with
the stick he carried.

"Gosh dern!" he exclaimed; "funny how things happen."

He stood in silence, looking down at the can.

Then I dropped another close to him. He muttered something
unintelligible. The third and fourth cans made him hop around like a
surprised robin beneath an apple tree, with fruit pelting the ground
near it. At length he hobbled off, talking to himself about a new lead
he had found, without solving the mystery of the tin cans dropping from
a clear night sky.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE CITY OF SILENCE

For days I had been on the trail, or, rather, off it, for there were no
trails in the high country through which I was traveling, excepting
those made by game. I was hungry. The region lacked charm. It is
difficult for a