Bud led the horse a few yards down the road, passing from it into the chaparral.  Thence, through a tangled wilderness of scrub-oak and manzanita, down a steep slope, into a pretty canon.

“Here we are.”

A sudden turn of the trail revealed a squatter’s hut built of rough lumber, and standing beneath a live-oak.  A small creek was babbling its way to the Salinas River.  The clearing in front of the hut was strewn with empty tins.  A tumble-down shed encircled by a corral was on the other side of the creek.  Jeff knew at once that he was looking at one of the innumerable mountain-claims taken up by Eastern settlers in the days of the great land boom, and forsaken by them a couple of years afterwards.

Jeff slid from the saddle on to his sound leg; then, counting rapidly the shining tins, he said reflectively:—­

“Bin here about a month, I reckon.”

“Yes—­Mister—­Sherlock—­Holmes.”

Jeff stared.  The ragamuffins of the foothills are not in the habit of reading fiction, although lying comes easy to them.

“Kin you read?” said Jeff.

“I—­kin,” replied Bud, grinning (he had nice teeth).  “Kin you?”

“I can cuff a cheeky kid,” said Jeff, scowling.

“But you’ve got to catch him first.”

The boy laughed gaily, and ran into the house, as Jeff sat down propping his broad back against a tree.

“Things here are not what they seem,” Jeff murmured to his horse, who twitched an intelligent ear, as if he, too, was well aware that this was no home of squatter or miner.  And who else of honest men would choose to live in such a desolate spot?

Presently the boy came back, carrying a feed of crushed barley.  Then he unsaddled the horse, watered him, and fed him.  Jeff grunted approval.

“You’re earnin’ that dollar—­every cent of it.”  A delightful fragrance of bacon floated to Jeff’s nostrils.  Evidently provision had been made for man as well as beast.

“That smells mighty good,” said Jeff.

Bud helped him to rise, but after one effort Jeff sank back, groaning.

“It’s my boot,” he explained.  “See—­I’m wearing a number eight on a number fifteen hoof.  W-w-what?  Pull it off?  Not for ten thousand dollars.  We’ll cut it off.”

Jeff produced a knife and felt its edge.

“It’s sharp,” he said, “sharp as you, Bud; but-doggone it!  I can’t use it.”

Bud saw the sweat start on his skin as he tried to pull the injured foot towards him.

“S’pose I do it?” the boy suggested.

“You’ve not got the nerve, Bud.  Why, you’re yaller as cheese, you poor little cuss.”

“I’m not,” said the boy, flushing suddenly.

He took the knife and began to cut the tough leather:  a delicate operation, for Jeff’s leg from knee to ankle was terribly swollen.  Slowly and delicately the knife did its work.  Finally, a horribly contused limb was revealed.