“Some of them are just ordinary quartz dikes,” said he.  “I suppose they claim gold for them.  There’s nothing in it; or if this does warrant a man developing, then every citizen who lives near rock has a mine in his back yard.”

Nevertheless he made his reports as detailed as possible.  In the meantime Bob accomplished a rough, or “cruiser’s” estimate of the timber.

As has been said, they found the Basin now quite deserted.  The trail to Sycamore Flats had apparently not been travelled since George Pollock had ridden down it to give himself up to authority.  Their preliminary labours finished, the two Forest officers packed, and were on the very point of turning up the steep mountain side toward the lookout, when two horsemen rode over the flat rock.

Naturally Bob and Ware drew up, after the mountain custom, to exchange greetings.  As the others drew nearer, Bob recognized in one the slanting eyeglasses, the close-lipped, gray moustache and the keen, cold features of Oldham.  Ware nodded at the other man, who returned his salutation as curtly.

“You’re off your beat, Mr. Oldham,” observed Bob.

“I’m after a deer,” replied Oldham.  “You are a little off your own beat, aren’t you?”

“My beat is everywhere,” replied Bob carelessly.

“What devilment you up to now, Sal?” Ware was asking of the other man, a tall, loose-jointed, freckle-faced and red-haired individual with an evil red eye.

“I’m earnin’ my salary; and I misdoubt you ain’t,” sneered the individual thus addressed.

“As what; gun man?” demanded Ware calmly.

“You may find that out sometime.”

“I’m not as easy as young Franklin was,” said Ware, dropping his hand carelessly to his side.  “Don’t make any mistakes when you get around to your demonstration.”

The man said nothing, but grinned, showing tobacco-stained, irregular teeth beneath his straggling, red moustache.

After a moment’s further conversation the little groups separated.  Bob rode on up the trail.  Ware followed for perhaps ten feet, or until out of sight behind the screen of willows that bordered the stream.  Then, without drawing rein, he dropped from his saddle.  The horse, urged by a gentle slap on the rump, followed in the narrow trail after Bob and the pack animal.  Ware slipped quietly through the willows until he had gained a point commanding the other trail.  Oldham and his companion were riding peacefully.  Satisfied, Ware returned, climbed rapidly until he had caught up with his horse, and resumed his saddle.  Bob had only that moment noticed his absence.

“Look here, Bob,” said Ware, “that fellow with Mr. Oldham is a man called Saleratus Bill.  He’s a hard citizen, a gun man, and brags of eleven killin’s in his time.  Mr. Oldham or no one else couldn’t pick up a worse citizen to go deer hunting with.  When you track up with him next, be sure that he starts and keeps going before you stir out of your tracks.”