Apache Kid handed the ore over to the Indian, who took it dumbly, and turned it over, but with heedless eyes; and he presently laid it down beside him, and then sat quiet again, looking on and listening. Never a word he said except when, each time he finished a cigarette and threw the end into the fire, the sheriff with a glance would throw him his pouch and cigarette papers. The dusky fingers would roll the cigarette, the thin lips would gingerly wet it, and then the pouch was handed back with the papers sticking in it, the sheriff holding out a hand, without looking, to receive it And on each of these occasions—about a dozen in the course of an hour—the Indian opened his lips and grunted, "Thank." Then the conversation dwindled, and the sheriff voiced a desire "to see down that there hole myself." The Indian had risen and gone out a little before this, and just as the sheriff rose he appeared at the door again, and looking in he remarked: "Bad night come along down," and he pointed to the sky. "Oh!" said the sheriff, "bad night?" "Es, a bad mountain dis," said the Indian. "No good come here." "You would n’t come here yourself, eh?" said the sheriff, smiling, but you could see he was not the man to ignore any word he heard. He was wont to listen to everything and weigh all that he heard in his mind, and take what he thought fit from what he heard, like one winnowing a harvest. "No, no!" said the Indian, emphatically. "I think—a no good stop over here. Only a darn fool white man. White man no care. A heap a bad mountain," he ended solemnly. "Devils?" inquired the sheriff. "Bad spirits, may be?" and he looked as serious as though he believed in all manner of evil spirits himself. The Indian seemed almost bashful now. "O! I dono devil," he said, and then after thinking he decided to acknowledge his belief. "Ees," he said, and he looked more shy than ever, "maybe bad spirit you laugh. Bad mountain, all same, devil o’ no devil." "And what’s like wrong with the mountain?" "He go away some day." "Mud-slide, eh?" asked Apache Kid. The Indian nodded, "O! Heap big mud-slide," he said. "You come a look." We all trooped on his heels, and then he led us to the gable of the shanty and pointed up to the summit. "Good preserve us," said Slim. "Alle same crack," said the Indian. "Too much dry. Gumbo[#] all right; vely bad for stick when rain come; he hold together in dry; keep wet long time—all same chewing gum," he added with brilliancy. [#] A sticky soil common in these parts. "But this ain’t like chewin’ gum, heh?" said the sheriff, following the drift of the Indian’s pidgin English. "Nosiree," said the Indian, "no hold together, come away plop, thick." "It’s a durned fine picture he’s drawin’," said Slim. "I can kind o’ see it, though. ’Plop,’ he says. I can kind o’ hear that plop."