nning the concentrates from our last clean-up,
and now the silver ball of amalgam sizzled and fried on the shovel
over the little chip-fire, while we smoked in the sun before the
cabin. Removed from the salivating fumes of the quicksilver, we
watched the yellow tint grow and brighten in the heat.

"There's two diseases which the doctors ain't got any license to
monkey with," began Bill, chewing out blue smoke from his lungs with
each word, "and they're both fevers. After they butt into your
system they stick crossways, like a swallered toothpick; there ain't
any patent medicine that can bust their holt."

I settled against the door-jamb and nodded.

"I've had them both, acute and continuous, since I was old enough
to know my own mind and the taste of tobacco; I hold them mainly
responsible for my present condition." He mournfully viewed his
fever-ridden frame which sprawled a pitiful six-feet-two from the
heels of his gum-boots to the grizzled hair beneath his white Stetson.

"The first and most rabid," he continued, "is horse-racing--and
t'other is the mining fever, which last is a heap insidiouser in its
action and more lingering in its effect.

"It wasn't long after that deal in the Territory that I felt the
symptoms coming on agin, and this time they pinted most emphatic
toward prospecting, so me and 'Kink' Martin loaded our kit onto the
burros and hit West.

"Kink was a terrible good prospector, though all-fired unlucky and
peculiar. Most people called him crazy, 'cause he had fits of goin'
for days without a peep.

"Hosstyle and ornery to the whole world; sort of bulging out and
exploding with silence, as it were.

"We'd been out in the hills for a week on our first trip before he
got one of them death-watch faces on him, and boycotted the English
langwidge. I stood for it three days, trying to jolly a grin on to
him or rattle a word loose, but he just wouldn't jolt.

"One night we packed into camp tired, hungry, and dying for a good
feed.

"I hustled around and produced a supper fit for old Mr. Eppycure.
Knowing that Kink had a weakness for strong coffee that was simply a
hinge in him, I pounded up about a quart of coffee beans in the
corner of a blanket and boiled out a South American liquid that was
nothing but the real Arbuckle mud.

"This wasn't no chafing-dish party either, because the wood was wet
and the smoke chased me round the fire. Then it blazed up in spurts
and fired the bacon-gr