go to his just reward. Wunpost put
up his glasses and turned back with a grin--it was hell, but he was
getting his revenge.

Wunpost spent the heat of the day in the bottom of the well, floating
about like a frog in the brine, but as evening came on he crawled out
dripping and saddled up and packed in haste. Every cinch-ring was
searing hot, even the wood and leather burned him, and as he threw on
the packs he lifted one foot after the other in a devil's dance over the
hot sands. It was hot even for Death Valley, the hottest place in North
America, but there was no use in waiting for it to cool. Wunpost soused
himself and mounted, and the next morning at dawn he looked down from
the rim of the Panamints.

The great sink-hole was beginning to seethe, to give off its poisonous
vapors and fill up like a bowl with its own heat; but he had escaped it
and fled to the heights while Pisen-face Lynch stayed below. He was
still at the ranch, gasping for breath before the water-fan which served
to keep the men there alive; and as he breathed that bone-dry air and
felt the day's heat coming on, he was cursing the name of Calhoun. Yes,
cursing long and loud, or deep and low, and vowing to wreak his revenge;
for before he had worked for hire, but now he had a grievance of his
own. He would take up Wunpost's trail like an Indian on the warpath,
like a warrior who had been robbed of his medicine-bag; he would come on
the run and with blood in his eye--that is, if the heat had not killed
him. For his pride was involved, and his name as a trailer and an
all-around desert-man; he had been led into a trap by a boy in his
twenties, and it was up to him to demonstrate or quit.

Wunpost went his way tranquilly, for there was no one to pursue him; and
ten days later he rode down Jail Canyon with his pack-mule loaded with
ore. It had been his boast that he would return in two weeks with a
mule-load of Sockdolager gold; but Billy, as usual, had taken his boast
lightly and came running with news of her own.

"Hello!" she called. "Say, you can't guess what I've done--I've taught
Red and Good Luck to be friends. They eat their supper together!"

"Good!" observed Wunpost, "and not to change the subject, what's the
chances for a white man to eat? I've been living on jerky for three
days."

"Why, they're good," returned Billy, suddenly quieted by his manner.
"What's the matter--have you had any trouble?"

"Oh, no!" blustered Wunpost, "nah, no