“Mine is more simple and not so interesting. Name, George Rawlins King. Place of birth, a suburb of St. Louis. Occupation, mining engineer. Present avocation, prospecting during my vacation. My idea of play, you see, is to get out here in the heat and snakes and work at my trade--for myself.” “And Johnny Buffalo?” “Oh, he just came along. Hadn’t seen this country since he was a kid and wanted to get back, I suppose, on his old stamping ground. He lived with Grandfather. But Grandfather died a few weeks ago, and Johnny and I have sort of thrown in together. Now, I suppose our prospecting trip is all off--for the present, anyway.” “This country has been gone over with a microscope, almost,” said Nevada. “I suppose there is mineral in these hills yet, but it must be pretty well hidden. The country used to swarm with prospectors, but they seem to have got disgusted and quit. The war in Europe, of course, has created a market--” She stopped and laughed with chagrin. “Of course a lady desert rat like me can give a mining engineer valuable information concerning markets and economic conditions in general!” “I’m always glad to talk shop,” Rawley declared tactfully. But Nevada fell silent and would not talk at all during the remainder of the journey. CHAPTER EIGHT “HIM THAT IS--MINE ENEMY” Their progress was necessarily slow, and Nevada’s “mile or so” seemed longer. Johnny Buffalo remained no more than half-conscious and breathed painfully. Nevada invented a makeshift sunshade for him, breaking off and trimming a drooping greasewood branch and borrowing the squaw’s apron to spread over it. This Rawley held awkwardly with one hand while he steadied the swaying figure with the other, and so they came at last abruptly to the river he had left at sunrise. The trail dipped down steeply to a small basin that overlooked the river possibly a hundred feet below. The canyon walls rose bold and black beyond,--sheer crags of rock with here and there a brush-filled crevice. Around the barren rim of the basin two or three crude shacks were set within easy calling distance of one another, and three or four swarthy, unkempt children accompanied by nondescript dogs rushed forth to greet the newcomers. The old squaw waddled forward and drove the dogs from the heels of the burro called Pickles, which lashed out and sent one cur yelping to the nearest shack. The children halted abruptly and stared at the two strangers open-mouthed, retreating slowly backward, unwilling to lose sight of them for an instant. Rawley stole a glance at Nevada, just turning his eyes under his heavy-lashed lids. A furtive look directed at his face was intercepted, and the red suffused her cheeks. Then her head lifted proudly. “My uncle’s children are not accustomed to seeing people,” she explained evenly. “Strangers seldom come here, and the children have never been away from home. Please forgive their bad manners.”