wed on the Cross ground, don't you?"

"We didn't know that," replied Townsend, inclined to be pacific, "but
I fancy, we are different from almost any one else that would come. We
represent the owners."

"Can't help that," came the blustering answer. "You'll have to hit the
trail. I don't take orders from no one but Presby."

A shade of annoyance was depicted on Townsend's face as he continued
to ignore the watchman's arrogance, and asked: "And please tell us,
who is Presby?"

"Presby? Who's Presby? What are you handin' me? You don't know
Presby?"

"I don't, or I shouldn't have asked you," Townsend answered with less
patience.

"Say," drawled his companion, with a calm deliberation that would have
been dreaded by those who knew him, "does it hurt you much to be
civil? You were asked who this man Presby is. Do you get that?"

The watchman glared at him for a moment, but there was something in
the cold eyes and firm lines of the prospector's face that caused him
to hesitate before venturing any further display of officiousness.

"He's the owner of the Rattler," he answered sullenly, "and I've got
orders from him that nobody, not any one, is to step a foot on this
ground. If you'd 'a' come by the road, you'd 'a' seen the sign."

The partners looked at each other for an instant, and the younger man,
ignoring the elder's apparent wrath, said: "Well, I suppose the best
thing we can do is to leave the burros here and go and see Presby, and
get this man of his called off."

"You'll leave no burros here!" asserted the watchman, recovering his
combativeness.

"Why, you fool," exploded Mathews, starting toward him with his fists
clenched and anger blazing from his eyes at the watchman's obstinate
stupidity, "you're talking to one of the owners of this mine! This is
Mr. Townsend."

For an instant the man appeared abashed, and then grumbled acridly:
"Well, I can't help it. I've got orders and----"

"Oh, come on, Bill," interrupted the owner, stepping to the nearest
burro's head. "We'll go on over to Presby, and get rid of this man of
his. It won't hurt the burros to go a little farther."

He turned to the watchman, who was scowling and obdurate.

"Where can Presby and the Rattler be found?" he asked crisply.

"Around the turn down at the mouth of the canyon," the watchman
mumbled. "It's not more than half or three-quarters of a mile from
here, but you'd better go back up the hill."

As if this last suggestion wa