here mountings fer thirty years, an’ now thet I ‘ve hit somethin’ worth havin’, I ’m hanged if I ‘m a-goin’ ter lie down meek ez Moses an’ see it stole out plumb from under me by a parcel o’ tin-horn gamblers.  Not me, by God!  If I can’t git a cinch on sich a feller ez I want, then I ‘ll come back an’ blow a hole through that Farnham down at San Juan.  I reckon I ‘ll go in an’ tell him so afore I start.”

The old man’s square jaws set ominously, his gnarled hand dropping heavily on the butt of the Colt dangling at his hip.

“You stay right yere, Stutter, on the dump, and don’t yer let one o’ them measly sneaks put nary foot on our claim, if yer have ter blow ’em plumb ter hell.  You an’ Mike kin tend ter thet all right, an’ you bet I ‘m goin’ ter have some news fer yer when I git home, my boy.”

He swung around, and strode back along the ledge to the door of the cabin, reappearing scarcely a moment later with a small bundle in his hand.

“Thar ’s ‘nough grub in thar ter last you an’ Mike fer a week yit, an’ I ’ll be back afore then, er else planted. Adios.”

Brown sat up, his gun resting between his knees, and in silence watched his partner scrambling down the steep trail.  It was not easy for him to converse, and he therefore never uttered a word unless the situation demanded the sacrifice.  He could swear, however, with considerable fluency, but just now even that relief seemed inadequate.  Finally, the older man disappeared behind the scrub, and, except for those more distant figures about the dump of the “Independence,” the blond giant remained apparently alone.  But Stutter had long ago become habituated to loneliness; the one condition likely to worry him was lack of occupation.  He scrambled to his feet and climbed the dump, until able to lean far over and look down into the black mouth of the uncovered shaft.

“Got yer b-b-bucket full, M-M-Mike?” he questioned, sending his deep, sputtering voice far down into the depths below.

“Oi have thot,” came the disgusted response from out the darkness.  “Ye measly spalpeen, ain’t Oi bin shakin’ of the rope fer twinty minutes?  Oi tought maybe ye’d run off an’ left me to rot down in the hole.  Whut ’s up now, ye freckled-face ilephant, yer?”

Brown indulged in a cautious glance about, then stuck his almost boyish face farther down within the safety of the hole before venturing an explanation.

“B-B-Bill’s g-gone to find s-s-some engi-n-neer w-with nerve ’nough ter r-r-run our lines,” he managed to spit out disjointedly.  “S-s-says he’ll go plumb ter Denver ’fore he ‘ll g-g-give up, an’ if he d-don’t f-find any sich he ‘ll c-c-come back an’ p-p-perforate F-F-Farnham.”

“Bedad!” a tinge of unrestrained delight apparent in the sudden roar, “an’ was he hot?”