ou 're going to work that mine.
Perhaps," and he shrugged his shoulders, "it's just as well. But there
are certain things to remember."

"Name them."

"Ohadi is thirty-eight miles from Denver. That's your goal. Out
there, they 'll tell you how the mine caved in, and how Thornton
Fairchild, who had worked it, together with his two men, Harry Harkins,
a Cornishman, and 'Sissie' Larsen, a Swede, left town late one night
for Cripple Creek--and that they never came back. That's the story
they 'll tell you. Agree with it. Tell them that Harkins, as far as
you know, went back to Cornwall, and that you have heard vaguely that
Larsen later followed the mining game farther out West."

"Is it the truth?"

"How do I know? It 's good enough--people should n't ask questions.
Tell nothing more than that--and be careful of your friends. There is
one man to watch--if he is still alive. They call him 'Squint'
Rodaine, and he may or may not still be there. I don't know--I 'm only
sure of the fact that your father hated him, fought him and feared him.
The mine tunnel is two miles up Kentucky Gulch and one hundred yards to
the right. A surveyor can lead you to the very spot. It's been
abandoned now for thirty years. What you 'll find there is more than I
can guess. But, Boy," and his hand clenched tight on Robert
Fairchild's shoulder, "whatever you do, whatever you run into, whatever
friends or enemies you find awaiting you, don't let that light die out
of your eyes and don't pull in that chin! If you find a fight on your
hands, whether it's man, beast or nature, sail into it! If you run
into things that cut your very heart out to learn--beat 'em down and
keep going! And win! There--that's all the advice I know. Meet me at
the 11:10 train for Indianapolis. Good-by."

"Good-by--I 'll be there." Fairchild grasped the pudgy hand and left
the office. For a moment afterward, old Henry Beamish stood thinking
and looking out over the dingy roof adjacent. Then, somewhat absently,
he pressed the ancient electric button for his more ancient
stenographer.

"Call a messenger, please," he ordered when she entered, "I want to
send a cablegram."

CHAPTER III

Two weeks later, Robert Fairchild sat in the smoking compartment of the
Overland Limited, looking at the Rocky Mountains in the distance. In
his pocket were a few hundred dollars; in the bank in Indianapolis a
few thousand, representing the final proceeds of t