“McGowan has had three dreams to that effect and stands ready to bet his life that redskins are helping to do him out of his bullion.” The king of scouts laughed. Dreams and omens, when taken seriously, always struck at the comical side of his matter-of-fact mind. He and his trapper pard were lounging out the afternoon on the veranda of their hotel, in Phœnix. They were just in from a trying piece of work at Gray Buzzard’s Gulch, and were taking the two or three days of rest which they felt themselves entitled to. The scout had had his interview with McGowan in the early morning, and immediately afterward the disappointed mine-owner had left for his home camp. When Buffalo Bill mentioned “dreams,” old Nomad proceeded to take a consuming interest in McGowan’s business. The trapper believed in dreams, and in evil spirits which he called “whiskizoos,” and he was ready to bet his scalp that there were such things as spooks. The scout’s reference to dreams likewise aroused the deep interest of another of his pards, who had been squatting on the veranda floor at a little distance, nodding in the warm sun. This was the Piute boy, Little Cayuse. Getting up from his sitting posture, Cayuse crossed the veranda and settled down nearer the scout’s chair, where he would not miss a word of whatever else might be said. Buffalo Bill passed his eyes from Cayuse to Nomad and gave a grim smile. “It’s a queer case,” said he. “Tell us erbout et, Buffler,” said Nomad. “I’m not intending to mix up in it, mind you. We are going from here direct to Fort Apache, and report for duty to the colonel commanding.” “Waal, tell us erbout McGowan an’ his dreams, anyways.” “It’s this way, pards,” went on the scout, lighting a fresh cigar and tilting back comfortably against the wall behind him. “Patrick McGowan owns the Three-ply Mine, mill, and cyanid-plant, over in the Phœnix mountains.” The scout waved one hand toward the distant blue uplifts, visible from the veranda. “For a long time, now, McGowan has been losing gold. The ore, just before it is fed to the stamps, assays one hundred dollars to the ton; when the tailings come off the mill-plates they assay six dollars to the ton. That leaves a difference of ninety-four dollars a ton which McGowan’s plates ought to catch for him; but they don’t. His mill clean-ups bring in an average of only forty-four dollars a ton. The question is, what becomes of the remaining fifty dollars a ton? It’s a conundrum that’s bothering the life out of McGowan. “They put through ten tons of ore every twenty-four hours at the Three-ply. That means that McGowan is losing five hundred dollars a day in some mysterious manner. And this has now been going on for two weeks, causing him a loss of seven thousand dollars, so far.” “Some of his millmen aire workin’ er hocus-pocus on him,” suggested Nomad.