to pack his saddle-bags, nor to get together
the few articles of clothing he had had washed by a Mexican woman in
town. He wrote a brief note to Dorothy, stating that he was on his way.
He paid his hotel bill, stepped round to the livery and paid for Dobe's
entertainment, saddled up, and, literally shaking the dust of San
Andreas from his feet, rode down the long trail south, headed for Joe
Scott's placer, as his first stop.

He would spend the night there and then head south again. The only
living thing that seemed interested in Bartley's exodus was a stray dog
that seemed determined to follow him. Turning from the road, Bartley
took the short cut to Scott's placer. Glancing back he saw that the dog
was still following. Bartley told him to go home. The dog, a very
ordinary yellow dog, didn't happen to have a home--and he was hungry. So
he ignored Bartley's command.

Whether or not he imagined that Bartley was different from the run of
townsfolk is a question. Possibly he imagined Bartley might give him
something to eat. In any event, the dog stuck to the trail clear up to
Scott's placer.

Scott was not at the cabin. Bartley hallooed, glanced round, and
dismounted. On the cabin door was a note: "Gone to Phoenix. J. Scott."

Bartley turned from the cabin to find the dog gazing up at him
mournfully; his expression seemed to convey the idea that they were both
in hard luck. Nobody home and nothing to eat.

"What, you here!" exclaimed Bartley.

The yellow dog wagged his tail. He was young and as yet had some faith
in mankind.

Bartley tied his horse and strode up the trail to the workings.
Everything had been put in order. The dog helped investigate, sniffing
at the wheelbarrow, the buckets, the empty sacks weighted down with rock
to keep them from blowing away, the row of tools, picks and shovels and
bars. Evidently the owner of the place was not concealed beneath any of
these things.

Meanwhile the afternoon shadows warned Bartley that a camp with water
and feed was the next thing in order. He strode back to the cabin. There
was no problem to solve, although he thought there was. The yellow dog,
an old campaigner in the open, though young in years, solved his problem
by a suggestion. He was tired. There seemed to be no food in sight. He
philosophically trotted to the open shed opposite the cabin and made a
bed for himself in a pile of gunny-sacks. Bartley grinned. Why not?

Experience had taught Bartley to carr