studied his fine profile attentively. "I'm glad he fell in with
a strong man like you--an experienced miner. He might have made a
mistake and lost all his small fortune. My! but it's fine up here!
What's that wonderful snowy range off there?"

"That's the Sangre de Cristo Range."

"Sangre de Cristo--Blood of Christ! Those old Spaniards had a lot of
poetry in them, didn't they?"

"I reckon so--and a whole lot of stiffening, too. You go through the
Southwest and see the country they trailed over--the hot, dry places and
the quicksands and canyons and all that. They sure made them Injuns
remember when they passed by."

"You know that country?"

"I may say I do. It was my parade-ground for about fifteen years. I
roamed over most of it. It's a fine country."

"Why did you leave it? Do you like this better?"

"I like any new country. I like to explore."

"But you're settled for a while?"

"Well, I don't know--if my partner will take my interest, I think I'll
shift along. I want to get into Alaska finally. I'd like to climb one of
them high peaks."

Fred, who was seated in front, turned. "Mother wants to know what the
mine paid last year--you tell her."

"It didn't pay much," replied Kelley, cautiously. "You see, we had some
new machinery to put in and some roads to grade and one thing or
another--I reckon it paid about"--he hesitated--"about three hundred a
month. But it's going to do better this year."

Florence, who was studying the men sharply, then said, "You wrote you
were getting about five dollars a day."

Fred's face showed distress. "I meant _net_," he said. "I didn't want to
worry you about details of machinery and all that."

Kelley began to feel that the girl's ears and eyes were alert to all
discrepancies, and he became cautious--so cautious that his pauses
revealed more than his words. But the mother saw nothing, heard nothing,
but the face and voice of her son, who pointed out the big mines that
were still running and the famous ones that were "dead," and so kept her
from looking too closely at the steep grades up which the car climbed.

At length, on the very crest of the high, smooth hill, they alighted and
Fred led the way toward a rusty old hack that looked as much out of
place on that wind-swept point as a Chinese pagoda.

Florence spoke of it. "Looks like Huckleberry Springs. Whom does its
owner find to carry up here?"

"Mostly it carries the minister and undertaker at funerals," repl