"No." Westcott hesitated an instant, but decided not to explain further. "He must be away, I think." "What you do if you no hear at all?" "We'll go on with the digging ourselves, Jose. It'll pay wages until I can interest capital somewhere to come in on shares." "You no sell Lacy then?" "Sell Lacy! Not in a thousand years. What put that in your head?" The Mexican rubbed the back of his pate. "You know Senor Moore--no hair so?" an expressive gesture. "Sure; what about him?" "He meet me at the spring; he come up the trail from Haskell on horseback with another man not belong 'round here." "What did he look like--big, red-faced fellow, with checked suit and round hat?" "_Si, senor_; he say to Moore, 'Why the hell you talk that damn greaser,' an' Moore laugh, an' say because I work for Senor Westcott." "But what was it Moore said to you, Jose?" "He cussed me first, an' when I wouldn't move, he swore that Lacy would own this whole hill before thirty days." "Was that all? Didn't the other fellow say anything?" "No, _senor_; but he swung his horse against me as they went by--he mighty poor rider." "No doubt; that is not one of the amusements of the Bowery. Where did they go? Up to La Rosita?" "_Si, senor_; I watched, they were there two hour." Westcott stared into the fireplace; then the gravity of his face relaxed into a smile. "Things are growing interesting, Jose," he said cheerfully. "If I only knew just which way the cat was about to jump I'd be somewhat happier. There seemed to be more light than usual across the gulch as I came up--what's going on?" "They have put on more men, _senor_--a night shift. Last night I went in our drift clear to the end, and put my ear to the rock. It was far away, but I hear." "No, no, Jose; that's impossible. Why, their tunnel as over a hundred yards away; not even the sound of dynamite would penetrate that distance through solid rock. You heard your heart beat." "No, _senor_," and Jose was upon his feet gesticulating. "It was the pick--strike, strike, strike; then stop an' begin, strike, strike, strike again. I hear, I know." "Then they must be running a lateral, hoping to cut across our vein somewhere within their lines." "And will that give them the right, _senor_?" Westcott sat, his head resting on one hand, staring thoughtfully into the dying fire; the yellow flame of the oil lamp between them on the table flickered in the draft from the open window. Here was a threatening combination of forces.