kill and luck--luck and skill--the tools of the
gamblers' trade! But, granted that sometime I shall make a
mistake--shall lose for the moment, my skill; I shall still have my
luck--and your mistakes. You are a good boy, Downey, but you'll be a
glum one if you wait to laugh at my mistakes. If I were a chicken
thief instead of a--gambler, I should fear you greatly."

Downey recounted this jibe in the barracks, and the officers redoubled
their vigilance, but the Indians still got their whisky, and new
horses appeared from the southward.

When Monk Bethune refused Ma Watts's invitation to dinner, and rode
off down the creek followed by Lord Clendenning, the refusal did not
meet the Englishman's unqualified approval, a fact that he was not
slow in imparting when, a short time later, they made noonday camp at
a little spring in the shelter of the hills.

"I say, Monk, what's this bally important business we've got on hand?"
he asked, as he adjusted a refractory hobble strap. "Seems to me you
threw away an excellent opportunity."

Bethune grinned. "Anything that involves the loss of a square meal, is
a lost opportunity. You're too beefy, Clen, a couple of weeks on pilot
bread and tea always does you good."

"I was thinking more of the lady."

"La, la, the ladies! A gay dog in your day--but, you've had your day.
Forget 'em, Clen, you're fifty, and fat."

"I'm forty-eight, and I weigh only fifteen stone as I stand,"
corrected the Englishman solemnly. "But layin' your bloody jokes
aside, this particular lady ought to be worth our while."

Bethune nodded, as he scraped the burning ends of the little sticks
closer about the teapot. "Yes, decidedly worth while, my dear Clen,
and that's where the important business comes in. Those who live by
their wits must use their wits or they will cease to live. I live by
my wits, and you by your ability to follow out my directions. In the
present instance, we had no plan. We could only have sat and talked,
but talk is dangerous--when you have no plan. Even little mistakes are
costly, and big ones are fatal. Let us go over the ground, now and
check off our facts, and then we can lay our plans." As he talked,
Bethune munched at his pilot bread, pausing at intervals for a swallow
of scalding tea.

"In the first place, we know that Rod Sinclair made a strike. And we
know that he didn't file any claim. Why? Because he knew that people
would guess he had made a strike, and that the minute