In the morning he went to work in the close air of the tunnel, which sadly needed a fan, and then he hurled his hammer to the ground and felt his way out to daylight. What was the use of it all; where did it get him to, anyway; this ceaseless, grinding toil? Murray's camp had shut down, the promoters had vanished, Pinal was deader than ever; he gathered up his tools and stored them in his cave, then sat down to write her a letter. Nothing less than the truth would win her back now and he confessed his shortcomings humbly; after which he told her that the town was too lonely and he was leaving, too. He sealed it in an envelope and addressed it with her name and when he was sure that Old Bunk was not looking he slipped in and gave it to her mother. "I'm going away," he said, "and I may not be back. Will you send that on to Drusilla?" "Yes," she smiled and hid it in her dress; but as he started for the door she stopped him. "You might like to know," she said, "that Drusilla has received an engagement. She is substitute soprano in a new Opera Company that is being organized to tour the big cities. I'm sorry you didn't see her." "Yes," answered Denver, "I'm sorry myself--but that never bought a man anything. Just send her the letter and--well, goodby." He blundered out the door and down the steps, and there stretched the road before him. In the evening he was as far as Whitlow's Well and a great weight seemed lifted from his breast. He was free again, free to wander where he pleased, free to make friends with any that he met--for if the prophecy was not true in regard to his mine it was not true regarding his friends. And how could any woman, by cutting a pack of cards and consulting the signs of the zodiac, predict how a man would die? Denver made himself at home with a party of hobo miners who had come in from the railroad below, and that night they sat up late, cracking jokes and telling stories of every big camp in the West. It was the old life again, the life that he knew and loved, drifting on from camp to camp with every man his friend. Yet as he stretched out that night by the flickering fire he almost regretted the change. He was free from the great fear, free to make friends with whom he would; but, to win back the love of the beautiful young artist, he would have given up his freedom without a sigh. His sleep that night was broken by strange dreams and by an automobile that went thundering by, and in the morning as they cooked a mulligan together he saw two great motor trucks go past. They were loaded with men and headed up the canyon and Denver began to look wild. A third machine appeared and he went out to flag it but the driver went by without stopping; and so did another, and another. He rushed after the next one and caught it on the hill but the men pushed him roughly from the running board. They were armed and he knew by their hard-bitten faces that it was another party of jumpers.