hly and all that. I guess a man that can
show title to twenty claims that turn out picked ore like that--well,
he's entitled, perhaps, to a little more consideration than you boys
have been showing me of late."

L. W. sat silent, his burning eyes on the gold, the cigar clutched
fiercely in his teeth--then without a word he wrote a check and threw
it across the desk.

"Much obliged," said Rimrock and without further words he stepped out
and cashed the check. And then Rimrock Jones disappeared.

The last person in Gunsight to hear what had happened was Mary Fortune.
She worked at her desk that day in a fever of expectation, now stopping
to wonder at the strange madness that possessed her, now pounding
harder to still her tumultuous thoughts. She did not know what it was
that she expected, only something great and new and wonderful,
something to lift her at last from the drudgery of her work and make
her feel young and gay. Something to rouse her up to the wild joy of
living and make her forget her misfortunes. To be poor, and deaf, and
alone--all these were new things to Mary Fortune; but she was none of
them when he was near. What need had she to hear when she could read
in his eyes that instant admiration that a woman values most? And
poor? The money she had given had helped him, perhaps, to gain
millions!

She worked late, that afternoon; and again, in the evening, she made an
excuse to keep her office lit up. Still he did not come and she paced
up the street, even listened as she passed by the saloons--then,
overwhelmed with shame that she had seemed to seek him, she fled to her
room and wept. The next day, and the next, she watched and listened
and at last she overheard the truth. It was Andrew McBain, the hard,
fighting Scotchman, who told the dreadful news--and she hated him for
it, always.

"Well, I'm glad he's gone," he had replied to L. W., who had beckoned
him out to the door. "He's a dangerous man--I've been afraid of
him--you're lucky to get off at that."

"Lucky!" yelled L. W., suddenly forgetting his caution, "he touched me
for two thousand dollars! Do you call that lucky? And here's the
latest--he hasn't got a pound of picked ore! Even took away what he
had; and that old, whiskered Mexican says he up and borrowed that from
him!"

"That's a criminal act," explained McBain exultantly, as he signaled L.
W. to be calm. "Shh, not so loud, the girl might hear you. Let him
go, and hold