and spacious and silent and hot. One day
I met Whitney on the edge of town. He was sober, as he always was when
he had to be; he was a masterful brute, in his way. He stopped me and
asked if I had found anything, and when I laughed he didn't laugh back.
'There's gold here,' he said. 'Lots of gold. Did you ever hear the story
of the Ten Strike Mine? Well, it's over there.' He swept with his arm
the line of distant hills to the north. 'The crazy Dutchman that found
it staggered into Almuda, ten miles down the valley, just before he
died; and his pockets were bulging with samples--pure gold, almost. Yes,
by thunder! And that's the last they ever heard of it. Lots of men have
tried--lots of men. Some day I'll go myself, surer than shooting.' And
he let his hands drop to his sides and stared silently toward the north,
a queer, dreamy anger in his eyes. I've seen lots of mining men, lots of
prospectors, in my time, and it didn't take me long to size up that look
of his. 'Aha, my friend!' I said to myself. 'So you've got another vice,
have you! It isn't only rum that's got a hold on you!' And I turned my
horse into the town.

"But our conversation seemed to have stirred to the surface something
in Whitney's brain that had been at work there a long time, for after
that he would never let me alone about his Ten Strike Mine and the
mountains that hid it. 'Over there!' he would say, and point to the
north. From the porch of his bungalow the sleeping hills were plainly
visible above the shimmering desert. He would chew on the end of a
cigar and consider. 'It isn't very far, you know. Two days--maybe
three. All we need's water. No water there--at least, none found. All
those fellows who've prospected are fools. I'm an expert; so are you.
I tell you, Hardy, let's do it! A couple of little old pack-mules! Eh?
How about it? Next week? I can get off. God, I'd like money!' And he
would subside into a sullen silence. At first I laughed at him; but
I can tell you that sort of thing gets on your nerves sooner or later
and either makes you bolt it or else go. At the end of two weeks I
actually found myself considering the fool thing seriously. Of course,
I didn't want to discover a lost gold-mine, that is, unless I just
happened to stumble over it; I wanted to keep away from such things;
they're bad; they get into a man's blood like drugs; but I've always
had a hankering for a new country, and those hills, shining in the heat,
were compelli