It was in March, the most colorful season in the Mohave, that Adam arrived at Tecopah to halt on a grassy bench at the outskirts of the camp. A little spring welled up here and trickled down to the creek. It was drinking water celebrated among desert men, who had been known to go out of their way to drink there. The telltale ears of Adam’s burros advised him of the approach of some one, and he looked up from his camp tasks to find a familiar figure approaching him. He rubbed his eyes. Was that strange figure the same as the one so vividly limned on his memory? Squat, huge, grotesque, the man coming toward him was Dismukes! His motley, patched garb, his old slouch hat, his boots yellow with clay and alkali, appeared the same he had worn on the memorable day Adam’s eyes had unclosed to see them. Dismukes drove his burros up to the edge of the bench, evidently having in mind the camp site Adam occupied. When he espied Adam he hesitated and, gruffly calling to the burros, he turned away. “Hello, Dismukes!” called Adam. “Come on. Plenty room to camp here.” The prospector halted stolidly and slowly turned back. “You know me?” he asked, gruffly, as he came up. “Yes, I know you, Dismukes,” replied Adam, offering his hand. “You’ve got the best of me,” said Dismukes, shaking hands. He did not seem a day older, but perhaps there might have been a little more gray in the scant beard. His great ox eyes, rolling and dark, bent a strange, curious glance over Adam’s lofty figure. “Look close. See if you can recognize a man you befriended once,” returned Adam. The moment was fraught with keen pain and a melancholy assurance of the changes time had made. Strong emotion of gladness, too, was stirring deep in him. This was the man who had saved him and who had put into his mind the inspiration and passion to conquer the desert. Dismukes was perplexed, and a little ashamed. His piercing gaze was that of one who had befriended many men and could not remember. “Stranger, I give it up. I don’t know you.” “Wansfell,” said Adam, his voice full. Dismukes stared. His expression changed, but it was not with recognition. “Wansfell! Wansfell!” he ejaculated. “I know that name.... Hell, yes! I’ve heard of you all over the Mohave!... I’m sure glad to meet you.... But, I never met you before.” The poignancy of that meeting for Adam reached a climax in the absolute failure of Dismukes to recognize him. Last and certain proof of change! The desert years had transformed Adam Larey, the youth, into the man Wansfell. For the first moment in all that time did Adam feel an absolute sense of safety. He would never be recognized, never be apprehended for his crime. He seemed born again. “Dismukes, how near are you to getting all your five hundred thousand?” queried Adam, with a smile. There seemed to be a sad pleasure in thus baffling the old prospector. “By Gad! how’d you know about that?” exclaimed Dismukes. “You told me.”