o., heard his story, saw the ore, and grubstaked him for another
trip.

But when he reached the foot-hills of the Mule Mountains Lewis found
that the long afternoon of battle and the ensuing night of flight had
left him utterly at sea as to the location of that large ledge. He had
to begin his hunt all over again. He used up his grubstake, got a
second from his backers, and subsequently a third.

And now while Lewis was combing down the gullies between those broken
ridges for the ore body--he slew himself from disappointment later
on--and while Jim Shea was meditating an expedition after the riches
of which he had got trace down in the dry wash, Ed Schiefflin came to
the Bruncknow house to embark on the adventure which was to give the
town of Tombstone its name.

The Bronco house, men call it now, but Bruncknow was the man who built
it and the new term is a corruption. Its ruins still stand on the
side-hill a few miles from the dry wash, a rifle-shot or so from the
spot where the two prospectors met their deaths. In those days it was
a lonely outpost of the white man in the Apache's land. The summer of
1877 was drawing to a close, its showers were already a distant
memory, and all southeastern Arizona was glowing under the white-hot
sun-rays when Schiefflin rode his mule up from the San Pedro to seek
the protection of its thick adobe walls.

The flat lands of the valley stretched away and away behind him to the
foot of the Huachucas in the west. They unfolded their long reaches to
the southward until they melted into the hot sky between spectral
mountain ranges down in Mexico. He came up out of that wide landscape,
a tall wild figure, lonesome as the setting sun.

His long beard and the steady patience in his eyes--the patience which
comes to the prospector during his solitary wanderings in search of
rich ore--gave him the appearance of a man past middle age although he
had not seen his thirtieth year. His curling hair reached his broad
shoulders. Wind and sun had tanned his features so deeply that his
blue eyes stood out in strange contrast to the dark skin. His garments
were sadly torn, and he had patched them in many places with buckskin.
Such men still come and go in the remote places among the mountain
ranges and deserts of the West. They were almost the first to
penetrate the wilderness and they will roam over it so long as any
patch of it remains unfenced.

Schiefflin had left his father's house in Oregon