We came upon him often after that, threading the windy passes, or by water-holes in the desert hills, and got to know much of his way of life.  He was a small, bowed man, with a face and manner and speech of no character at all, as if he had that faculty of small hunted things of taking on the protective color of his surroundings.  His clothes were of no fashion that I could remember, except that they bore liberal markings of pot black, and he had a curious fashion of going about with his mouth open, which gave him a vacant look until you came near enough to perceive him busy about an endless hummed, wordless tune.  He traveled far and took a long time to it, but the simplicity of his kitchen arrangements was elemental.  A pot for beans, a coffee-pot, a frying-pan, a tin to mix bread in—­he fed the burros in this when there was need—­with these he had been half round our western world and back.  He explained to me very early in our acquaintance what was good to take to the hills for food:  nothing sticky, for that “dirtied the pots;” nothing with “juice” to it, for that would not pack to advantage; and nothing likely to ferment.  He used no gun, but he would set snares by the water-holes for quail and doves, and in the trout country he carried a line.  Burros he kept, one or two according to his pack, for this chief excellence, that they would eat potato parings and firewood.  He had owned a horse in the foothill country, but when he came to the desert with no forage but mesquite, he found himself under the necessity of picking the beans from the briers, a labor that drove him to the use of pack animals to whom thorns were a relish.

I suppose no man becomes a pocket hunter by first intention.  He must be born with the faculty, and along comes the occasion, like the tap on the test tube that induces crystallization.  My friend had been several things of no moment until he struck a thousand-dollar pocket in the Lee District and came into his vocation.  A pocket, you must know, is a small body of rich ore occurring by itself, or in a vein of poorer stuff.  Nearly every mineral ledge contains such, if only one has the luck to hit upon them without too much labor.  The sensible thing for a man to do who has found a good pocket is to buy himself into business and keep away from the hills.  The logical thing is to set out looking for another one.  My friend the Pocket Hunter had been looking twenty years.  His working outfit was a shovel, a pick, a gold pan which he kept cleaner than his plate, and a pocket magnifier.  When he came to a watercourse he would pan out the gravel of its bed for “colors,” and under the glass determine if they had come from far or near, and so spying he would work up the stream until he found where the drift of the gold-bearing outcrop fanned out into the creek; then up the side of the canon till he came to the proper vein.  I think he said the best indication of small pockets was an iron stain, but I could never get the run of miner’s