Cass Beard had avoided these proceedings, which only recalled an unpleasant experience, and was wandering with pick, pan, and wallet far from the camp. These accoutrements, as I have before intimated, justified any form of aimless idleness under the equally aimless title of "prospecting." He had at the end of three hours' relaxation reached the highway to Red Chief, half hidden by blinding clouds of dust torn from the crumbling red road at every gust which swept down the mountain side. The spot had a familiar aspect to Cass, although some freshly-dug holes near the wayside, with scattered earth beside them, showed the presence of a recent prospector. He was struggling with his memory, when the dust was suddenly dispersed and he found himself again at the scene of the murder. He started: he had not put foot on the road since the inquest. There lacked only the helpless dead man and the contrasting figure of the alert young woman to restore the picture. The body was gone, it was true, but as he turned he beheld Miss Porter, at a few paces distant, sitting on her horse as energetic and observant as on the first morning they had met. A superstitious thrill passed over him and awoke his old antagonism. She nodded to him slightly. "I came here to refresh my memory," she said, "as Mr. Hornsby thought I might be asked to give my evidence again at Blazing Star." Cass carelessly struck an aimless blow with his pick against the sod and did not reply. "And you?" she queried. "I stumbled upon the place just now while prospecting, or I shouldn't be here." "Then it was YOU made these holes?" "No," said Cass, with ill-concealed disgust. "Nobody but a stranger would go foolin' round such a spot." He stopped, as the rude significance of his speech struck him, and added surlily, "I mean--no one would dig here." The girl laughed and showed a set of very white teeth in her square jaw. Cass averted his face. "Do you mean to say that every miner doesn't know that it's lucky to dig wherever human blood has been spilt?" Cass felt a return of his superstition, but he did not look up. "I never heard it before," he said, severely. "And you call yourself a California miner?" "I do." It was impossible for Miss Porter to misunderstand his curt speech and unsocial manner. She stared at him and colored slightly. Lifting her reins lightly, she said: "You certainly do not seem like most of the miners I have met." "Nor you like any girl from the East I ever met," he responded. "What do you mean?" she asked, checking her horse. "What I say," he answered, doggedly. Reasonable as this reply was, it immediately struck him that it was scarcely dignified or manly. But before he could explain himself Miss Porter was gone.