After that, Bill rubbed the cramp out of his right hand and wrist, and signed a large book of blank checks with Parowan Consolidated Mining Company, Incorporated, printed across the face in letters much larger than the name of the bank. Bill thought suspiciously of certain dishonest uses to which his signature as president might be put, and immediately throttled suspicion with the stern hand of loyalty. Doris was right. If he didn't trust John Emmett and Walter Rayfield, why were they officers in his company? "There's one thing I want done," he said abruptly, pushing the signed blanks away from him with a sigh of relief. "I want that whole block--the whole _block_, remember--where my tent and dugout stands made over to me. I want a high board fence built around it, with spikes in the top. I want a padlock on the gate. I want that tent and cellar left just as I left it, with Tommy as caretaker. And I want Tommy to have a block next to it, to do as he pleases with it. Can you make out the papers to-night?" They could. Bill sat for some time silent, smoking meditatively and staring at the door through which the fate of Parowan had passed, in the persons of John S. Emmett and Walter B. Rayfield. He was a rich man, even now. He was growing richer so fast that he felt slightly dizzy when he tried to follow the process by which his bank account increased. It wasn't the gold in the mine that did it--yet. Doris was right; the gold shipped had just about paid the expense of exploitation. People were buying town lots at boom prices and selling them at double what they paid. He was not the only man who was growing rich. Even Tommy was talking about starting a saloon and calling it "Tommy's Place" with naïve triteness. As Parowan Consolidated was selling in the open market, Bill was a millionaire. As Parowan lots were selling, Bill's income was better than a thousand dollars a day--real money, that, with a certain increase as men flocked to the new camp. Already that camp was noisy--garish, unwholesome, no place at all for Doris to live. Bill had tried to prevent that. He had wanted a decent town, had worked and sweated and sworn to make it so. But Parowan was like a landslide started with one ill-judged step. It has gathered a devastating power as it progressed, until now, Bill knew that it was out of hand; a boom town, living up to the reputation of other boom towns. Only--and Bill sighed relievedly as he thought of it--_his_ boom had a mine to give it a solid foundation. "No reason in the world why Parowan shouldn't be on the map a hundred years from now," he muttered, and began to unlace the first pair of patent-leather shoes he had ever worn. CHAPTER THIRTEEN BILL LEARNS ABOUT WOMEN FROM 'ER