“All the claim-jumpin’ they’ll do won’t hurt nobody,” Casey observed unexcitedly, when he had set the Little Woman down on a rock beside his location “cut” in the canyon’s side.  “She likely picked on a white man so’s he could locate under the law, but this claim’s located a’ready.”  He waved a hand toward the monument, a few rods up the canyon.  “And Casey Ryan ain’t spreadin’ no rich gold vein wide open for every prowlin’ desert rat to pack off all he kin stagger under.  I’m callin’ it the Devil’s Lantern.  You c’n call a mine any name yuh darn want to.  And if it wasn’t fer the Devil’s Lantern, I wouldn’t be here.  That name won’t mean nothin’ to ’em.  Let ’em come.”  His eyes turned toward the hidden richness and dwelt there, studying the tracks, big and little, that led up to it, and deciding that tracks do not necessarily mean a gold mine, and that it would be better to leave them as they were and not attempt to cover them.

“You just say it’s your claim, if they come snoopin’ around here.  I’m supposed to be workin’ for yuh,” he said abruptly, giving her one of his quick, steady glances.

“They can go and read the location notice,” the Little Woman pointed out.  Casey did not make any reply to that, but picked up his shovel and went to work again, mucking out the dirt and broken rocks which the dynamite had loosened in the cut.

“She’s a bird, ain’t she?” he grinned over his shoulder, his mind reverting to Lucy Lily.  “Did she have on her war paint?”

“She will have, when she sees you,” the Little Woman retorted, watching the farther rim of the canyon.  Then she remembered Babe and called to her.  That youngster was always prospecting around on her own initiative, and she answered shrilly now from up the canyon.  The Little Woman stood up, looking that way, never dreaming how wishfully Casey was watching her,—­ and how reverently.

“Baby Girl, you must not run off like that!  Mother will be compelled to tie a rope on you.”

“I was jes’ getting—­Casey Wyan’s—­’bacco.  Poor Casey Wyan forgot—­his ‘bacco!  He’s my frien’.  I have to give him his ’bacco,” Babe defended herself, coming down from the location monument in small jumps and scrambles.  Close to her importantly heaving chest she clutched a small, red tobacco can of the kind which smokers carelessly call “P.A.”  “Casey Wyan lost it up in the wocks,” Babe explained, when her mother met her disapprovingly and caught her by the hand.

“Why, Babe!  You’ve been naughty.  This must be Casey Ryan’s location notice.  It must be left in the rocks, Baby Girl, so people will know that Casey Ryan owns this claim.”

“It’s his ’bacco!” Babe insisted stubbornly.  “Casey Wyan needs his ’bacco.”

The Little Woman knew that streak of stubbornness of old.  There was just one way to deal with it, and that was to prove to Babe that she was mistaken.  So she opened the red can and pulled out a folded paper, unfolded the paper and began to read it aloud.  Not that Babe would understand it all, but to make it seem very convincing and important,—­and I think partly to enjoy for herself the sense of Casey’s potential wealth.