“I dunno. I’ve got a danged good notion to ride up to the Red Hill mine today. I want to have a little talk with Barney Devine. He might have an idea, and I haven’t seen him since that hold-up. Want to go along?” “Yeah, I’d like to.” Harp was willing to go anywhere. He wanted to get out of Marlin City. “All right. We’ll bust out of here about noon, Harp.” * * * * * It was about eleven o’clock when the stage came in from Silverton, on its way to the Red Hill Mine. Little Whizzer sat beside Baldy on the driver’s seat, as proud as a peacock. It was several days since the grizzly episode, during which time Baldy had taken the child with him everywhere. It was a new experience for Whizzer. Baldy shook hands with Brick, who picked Whizzer off the seat and carried him into Wesson’s store after candy. “Where’s yore spur?” asked Brick, noting that Whizzer was not wearing it. Whizzer removed the candy long enough to gasp for breath and inform Brick that— “I ain’t no puncher now. Stage drivers don’t wear spurs.” “By golly, that’s my mistake,” laughed Brick. “I’m sure an ignorant jigger.” “Yeah,” nodded Whizzer seriously, much to Harp’s delight. He put the boy back on the seat and waved his hat at him, as they swept out of town. It was about two hours later when Brick and Harp saddled their horses and headed north. It was eighteen miles from Marlin to the Red Hill mines. For a greater part of the distance the road followed the cañon, but about five miles from the mines it led to higher ground, winding along the sides of the mountain where, as Brick expressed it, “a driver is only allowed one mistake.” As they rode out of the cañon and began climbing, a rider came into view, coming down the grade. He was a medium-sized man, possibly forty years of age, slightly stooped in his saddle. He drew up at their approach, removed his sombrero to wipe his forehead, disclosing a mop of tow-colored hair. His face was bony of contour, nose slightly crooked. Neither Brick nor Harp had ever seen the man before, but there was something familiar about him—a resemblance to someone they had known. He was wearing a faded blue shirt, nondescript vest, chaps that were heavy with nickel and brass trimmings, matching the design on his cartridge-belt and holster. The horse was a tall, powerfully built sorrel. “Is this the road to Marlin City?” he asked. “Y’betcha,” nodded Brick. “Stay on it and you’ll hit Marlin.” “Good! By golly, I’ve been on so many wrong roads that it’ll sure be a surprize to hit the right one once. Say, have yuh got any smokin’?” Brick handed him a package. “Gosh, that’s fine, stranger. I tried to buy some Durham back at that mine, but they didn’t have any. I reckon them hon-yocks all chaw or snuff. Much obliged.” He handed back the package, but Brick shook his head. “You keep it. You’ll need another smoke soon.” “Well, all right—thanks.”