in the wilderness by utilizing Nature’s storehouse.  As I have grown older, I have found out that it is the only place where I am permanently happy.  Years ago my partner and myself located this mine, along with some others; but because of lack of capital, this one was never developed.”  He pointed his finger to a pile of loose, freshly-mined rock just up the hill from his tent.  “I’ve been railroading for the last ten years, but was awfully unlucky; so after the last smash-up I decided I would come back and see what this old mine held for me.  It’s a funny thing about mines, boys—­you can dig and work, work and dig, and be more or less contented as long as you find nothing but prospects.  But when you dig up a little of the real gold, you get terribly impatient until you find it in paying quantities.  I’ve had the gold fever for twenty years.”

“Do you think there is anything in any of these mines on Cheyenne Mountain?” inquired Willis.  “My father owned a mine somewhere on this mountain; but I expect that it was a good deal like your mine—­never developed.  I’d love to find it, though, just because it was his.  He was killed in a mine accident, somewhere in these hills, when I was a small boy.”

The miner’s face went suddenly white.  His eyes partially closed and his hands shook, as he muttered something about, “Just as I thought,” then continued, “Well, I—­” He changed his mind, and, turning to his woodpile, chopped vigorously for some moments.  When he spoke again Mr. Allen noticed that his voice was husky and that he was scrutinizing Willis with special care.

“I can’t tell you to whom all these holes belong, but some of them I know.  That one over there was located by Old Ben at Bruin Inn.  That one with a dump of black rock,” pointing up the opposite side of the canyon, “belongs to a real estate firm in Colorado Springs—­Williams and somebody.”  He never took his eyes from the boy’s face as he spoke.

“Williams, why—­why, my Uncle, Williams, is a real estate man, but I didn’t know that he—­”

The miner, still eyeing the boy carefully, interrupted him by adding, “And the hole directly to one side, and on the same property, belonged to a young engineer, and was located many years ago.  The Williams shaft has been sunk in the last few years.  That hole has the very best prospects of being something of any on the mountain.  The Williams outfit restaked the claim because the assessment work had not been kept up by the original owner.”

“What was the original owner’s name?  Do you know?  You say he was a young engineer?”

“Yes, his name was Thornton.”  The man dropped his head and worked the heel of his boot nervously in the dirt.  “I used to know him quite well, years ago.”  Then he added, in a slow, hesitating tone, “I haven’t seen anything of him for nearly a dozen years.”

The corners of Willis’s mouth twitched nervously.  He tried to speak, but couldn’t.  He came a couple of paces nearer to the miner, stopped, picked up a slender twig, and began to whittle it thoughtfully.