At the camp they crushed the picked ore in a mortar and panned it in the creek, and for the moment De Lancey dropped his air of preoccupancy as he stared at the streak of pure gold. Like a yellow film it lay along the edge of the last fine tailings, and when skilful washing had left it bare, it gleamed like a jewel in the pan. "By Jove, Bud!" he cried, "that's the real stuff--and it goes a dollar to the pan easy!" "Sure thing!" assented Bud. "Let's pound a lot of it and wash it as we go--then we'll have some getaway money when things break loose here!" "I'll go you!" answered Phil, and Bud's heart warmed toward him as he watched him pound up a piece of ore and go to swirling the dirt in the pan. But alas for the fond hopes he cherished! Even as he washed out the gold Phil's mind wandered far away, back to the hotel where Gracia Aragon sat watching by the window. Her hair was the color of gold, spun fine and refined again; yes, it was worth more than this golden dross that he caught in the bottom of his pan. And what was gold if he could not have her? He paused in his labor and a dreamy smile parted his lips--then he broke into a song: "Sweet honey-bee, be sweet to me, My heart is free, but here's the key; Lock up the garden gate; honey, you know I'll wait, Under the rambler rose tree-ee." Once more he returned to his work, humming now the dulcet strains of "The Merry Widow," and when Bud came back from the cut it was to hear a coon song: "'Cos I want yer, ma honey, yes, I want yer, want yer, want yer; 'Cos I want yer, ma honey, yes, I do!" So he labored and sang, until finally the labor ceased, and then the song. He went about other things, and other thoughts, not so cheerful, filled his mind. Bud returned sadly to the company of the Yaqui and gave it up. Perhaps his pardner had been right when, riding out of Agua Negra, he had enlarged upon the dangers of Old Mexico, "the land of _mañana_ and broken promises." Certainly his speech had been prophetic in regard to dark-eyed women; for, even as he had said, nothing seemed to please them better than to come between man and man. It was a madness, he felt sure--the spell of the hot country, where the women look out from behind barred windows and men sing beneath their balconies at midnight. Already it had cost him his pardner--would it conquer _his_ will as well and make him forget his trust? In his impotence the idea of some perverse fate--some malign influence over which he had no control--was strong with Hooker; yet when the blow fell he was not prepared for it. It was the third day of their mining and, with Amigo, he had been driving into the face of the cliff. Already their round of holes was drilled, the fuses cut, the charges set, and as he retreated before the blast he noticed absently that Cruz Mendez was in camp. The shots followed one after another, and he counted them to make sure there was no miss-fire--then he looked around and discovered that Phil was gone.