The epitaph Shorty Harris wanted seemed fitting: “_Above me write, ‘Here lies Shorty Harris, a single blanket jackass prospector.’_” As I turned away I thought of the monuments erected to dead Caesars who had left trails of blood and ruin. Shorty Harris simply followed a jackass into far horizons, and by leaving a smile at every water hole, a pleasant memory on every trail, attained a fame which will last as long as the annals of Death Valley. Chapter XVIII A Million Dollar Poker Game Herman Jones, young Texan with keen blue eyes and a guileless grin, dropped off the train at Johnnie, a railroad siding, named for the nearby Johnnie mine. At the ripe age of 21 he had been through a shooting war between New Mexico cattle men, and needing money to marry the prettiest girl in the territory, he had come for gold. Finding it lonesome on his first night he sought the diversion of a poker game in a saloon and gambling house. He bought a stack of chips, sat down facing the bar and a moment later another stranger entered, inquired if he could join the game. Told that $20 would get a seat, the stranger standing with his back to the bar was reaching for his purse when Herman saw the bartender pick up a six-gun. With his elbows on the bar and his pistol in two hands, he aimed the gun at the back of the stranger’s head and pulled the trigger. The victim dropped instantly to the floor, his brains scattered on the players. The poker session adjourned and Jones was standing outside a few moments later when he was tapped on the shoulder. “Come on,” he was told. “We’re giving that fellow a floater.” Herman didn’t know what a floater was, but decided it was best to obey orders and followed the leader into the saloon. Approaching the bartender, the spokesman pulled out his watch. “Bob,” he said quietly. “It’s six o’clock. It won’t be healthy around here after 6:30.” He set a canteen on the bar and walked out. Without a word, the bartender pulled off his coat, gathered up the cash, called the painted lady attached to his fortune and said, “Sell out for what you can get. I’ll let you know where I am.” Picking up his hat he left. No one ever learned the cause of the murder or the identity of the dead. With no luck in the Johnnie district or at Greenwater, Herman left the latter place on a prospecting trip in partnership with another luckless youngster previously mentioned—Harry Oakes. On a hill overlooking the dry bed of the Amargosa River about four miles north of Shoshone, he saw a red outcropping on a hill so steep he decided nothing that walked had ever reached the summit, and for that reason he might find treasure overlooked.