"Yeh, some guy," observed Big Boy, "and I see you're some story-teller, but what's all this got to do with me?" "Oh, nothing, nothing," answered Old Bunk hastily, "only I thought while you were eating----" "Yes, you told me two stories about a couple of hoboes and then another one about taming down a bad man; but I want to tell you right now, before you go any further, that I'm no hobo nor bad man neither. I'm a danged good miner--one of the best in Globe----" "Aw, no no!" burst out Bunker holding up both hands in protest, "you've got me wrong entirely." "Well, your stories may be all right," responded Big Boy shortly, "but they don't make a hit with me. And I've took about enough, for one day." He started back up the trail and Bunker Hill rode along behind him going over the events of the day. Some distinctly evil genius seemed to have taken possession of him from the moment he got out of bed and, try as he would, it seemed absolutely impossible for him to square himself with this Big Boy. "Hey, git on and ride," he shouted encouragingly, but Big Boy shook his head. "Don't want to," he answered and once more Bunker Hill was left to ponder his mistakes. The first, of course, was in taking too much for granted when Big Boy had walked into town; and the second was in ever refusing a hobo when he asked for something to eat. True it amounted in the aggregate to a heart-breaking amount--almost enough to support his family--but a man lost his luck when he turned a hobo down and Old Bunk decided against it. Never again, he resolved, would he restrain his good wife from following the dictates of her heart, and that meant that every hobo that walked into town would get a square meal in his kitchen. Where the cash was coming from to buy this expensive food and pay for the freighting across the desert was a matter for the future to decide, but as he dwelt on his problem a sudden ray of hope roused Bunker Hill from his reverie. Speaking of money, the ex-hobo, walking along in front of him, had over eight hundred dollars in his hip pocket--and he claimed to be a miner! "Say!" began Bunker as they came in sight of town, "d'ye see those old workings over there? That's the site of the celebrated Lost Burro Mine--turned out over four millions in silver!" "Yeah, so I've heard," answered Big Boy wearily, "been closed down though, for twenty years." "I'm the owner of that property," went on Bunker pompously. "Andrew Hill is my name and I'd be glad to show you round." "Nope," said the future prospect, "I'm too danged tired. I'm going down to the crick and rest." "Come up to the house," proposed Bunker Hill cordially, "and meet my wife and family. I'm sure Mrs. Hill will be glad to see you back--she was afraid that something might happen to you." The hobo glanced up with a swift, cynical smile and turned off down the trail to the creek. "I see you've got your eye on my roll," he observed and Bunker Hill shrugged regretfully. CHAPTER IV CASH