Digby and Poke were not always in accord, but Poke was tireless and carried the heavy boy as though he were a feather-weight. Poke could go without food and water much longer than most mountain-bred mustangs. Dig declared there must be a strain of camel in him. But there was not an attractive thing about the brute, either in temper or appearance. In a minute he was neck and neck with Hero, and both horses were carrying their young masters up the slope at a fast pace. Dig grumbled: “This old rascal always cuts up when I want him in a hurry. I’m going to trade him off for a horned toad, and then use the toad for a currycomb. Your Hero is a regular lady’s horse ’side o’ him.” “You know you wouldn’t take any money for old Poke,” returned Chet, reaching out and smiting the black across his ugly nose with his own palm. “Why do you give him a chance to get away from you?” “Because hope springs eternal in my breast,” declared Dig, who would joke under any and all circumstances. “I’m always hopin’ I’ve got the rascal broken of his bad habits.” Chet was not in a mood for laughter; nor was his chum careless of thought. He really hoped to get Chet’s mind off the mine accident. It might not be anywhere near so bad as Dan Gubbins had said. Mining at Silver Run was now carried on with much more care for human life than it had been when the claims were first staked out and the original owners had begun to get out “pay dirt.” Mr. Havens was a practical engineer, a graduate from a College of Mines, and with a long experience at other diggings before he had obtained a controlling interest in the Silent Sue. It was a mine the stock of which had never been exploited in the eastern market. Mr. Fordham and Mr. Havens had always been able to obtain sufficient capital to buy machinery and improve their methods of getting out the ore; and they found the Silent Sue too steadily productive to need any other partners. Mr. Havens owned, also, a second claim near the first that might some day develop into a rich one. When the two chums rode up to the collection of rude miners’ cabins, sheds, the stamp-mill, and other shanties that surrounded the mouth of the mine-shaft, they found a crowd already gathered. Men and women alike were commingling excitedly about the shaft in which the rescue party was at work. A big, bushy-whiskered man in yellow overalls and a tarpaulin hat was urging on the workers, and trying to keep the women and children back from the open mouth of the pit. “Oh, Rafe!” cried Chet, throwing himself out of the saddle and running up to the mine boss. “Are they down there yet?” “They’re all right so fur, Chet,” declared the man. “Can you get them out?”