Mr. Long's purposes, as smelling strongly of dynamite. Then Mr.
Long--Tobe--hid the grave by sliding and shoveling broken rock down the
dump upon it.

Next he threw into a wheelbarrow drills, spoon, tamping stick, gads,
drill-hammer, rock-hammer, canteen, shovel and pick--taking care, even
in his haste, to select a properly matched set of drills--and trundled
the barrow up the drift at a pace which would give a Miners' Union the
rabies. At the breast, he unshipped his cargo in right miner's fashion,
the drills in a graduated stepladder row along the wall; loaded the
barrow with broken ore, a bit of charred fuse showing at the top, and
wheeled it out at the same unprofessional gait, leaving it on the dump
just above the spot where his late sepulchral rites had freshened the
appearance of the sunbeaten dump.

He next performed his ablutions in an amateurish and perfunctory
fashion, scrupulously observing a well-defined waterline.

"There!" said Mr. Long. "I near made a break that time!" He went back to
the barrow and trundled it assiduously to the tunnel's mouth and back
several times, carefully never in quite the same place--finally leaving
it not above the sepulchered spoil, but near the ore stack, as befitted
its valuable contents. "I got to think of everything. One wrong break'll
fix me good!" said Mr. Long. He felt his neck delicately, as if he
detected some foreign presence there. "In the tunnel, now, there's only
the one place where the wheel can go; so it don't matter so much in
there."

The fire having now burned down to proper coals, Mr. Long set about
supper; with the corner of his eye on the lookout for the pursuers of
the late Bransford. He set the coffee-pot by the fire--they were now in
the edge of the tar-brush; there were only two of them. He put on a pot
of potatoes in their jackets--he could see them plainly, diminutive
black horsemen twinkling through the brush; he sliced bacon into a
frying-pan and put it aside to await his cue; he disposed other cooking
ware in lifelike attitudes near the fire--they were in the long shadow
of Double Mountain; their horses were jaded; they rode slowly. He
dropped the sour-dough jar and placed the broken pieces where they would
be inconspicuously visible. Having thus a perfectly obvious excuse for
not having sour-dough bread, which requires thirty-six hours of running
start for preliminary rising, Jeff--Mr. Tobe Long--mixed up a
just-as-good baking-powder substit