dead slow, an' so I hired a
man to run the works while I hit the old trail again. I don't have to
get anybody to grubstake me now. I've been able to boost some of the
others who used to help me."

"But what started you looking for Burns's mine? I thought that story had
been considered a fake years ago."

"What is a lost mine?" asked Wilbur.

Merritt looked at him a moment thoughtfully, then turned to the
prospector.

"You tell the yarn," he said. "You probably know it better than I do."

"I'm not much on talkin'," began the prospector. "Away back in the
sixties, after the first gold-rush, Jock Burns, one of the old
Forty-niners, started prospectin' in the Sierras. There's not much here,
but one or two spots pay. By an' by Burns comes into the settlements
with a few little bags of gold dust, an' nuggets of husky size. He blows
it all in. He spends free, but he's nowise wasteful, so he stays in town
maybe a month.

"Then he disappears from view, an' turns up in less than another month
in town with another little bundle of gold dust. It don't take much
figurin' to see that where there's a pay streak so easy worked as that,
there's a lot more of it close handy. An' so they watches Burns close.
Burns, he can't divorce himself from his friends any more than an Indian
can from his color. This frequent an' endurin' friendliness preys some
on Burns's nature, an' bein' of a bashful disposition, he makes several
breaks to get away. But while the boys are dead willin' to see him start
for the mountains, they reckon an escort would be an amiable form of
appreciation. Also, they ain't got no objection to bein' shown the way
to the mine.

"Burns gets a little thin an' petered out under the strain, but time an'
agin he succeeds in givin' 'em the slip. Sure enough he lines up a month
or two later with some more of the real thing. Finally, one of these
here friends gets a little peevish over his frequent failures to stack
the deck on Burns. He avers that he'll insure that Burns don't spend any
more coin until he divvys up, an' accordin'ly he hands him a couple of
bullets where he thinks they'll do most good."

"What did he want to kill him for?" asked Wilbur.

"He didn't aim to kill him prompt," was the reply. "His idee was to trot
him down the hill by easy stages, an' gradooally indooce the old
skinflint to talk. But his shootin' was a trifle too straight, and
Burns jest turns in his toes then an' there. This displeases the