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SATURDAY. JUNE 13. The Land of Broken Promises A Stirring Story of the Mexican Revolution A story of border Mexico, vivid, Intense, such as has never before been written, Is this one of Ameri can adventurers into the land of manana. Texan, mining engineer, Bpanish senor and senorita, peon, Indian, crowd Its chapters with clear-cut word pictures of busi ness, adventure and love, against a somber background of wretched armies marching and counter marching across a land racked by revolution and without a savior. CHAPTER I. The sTow-rolllng wlnter’3 sun rose coldly, far to the south, riding up from behind the saw-toothed Sierras of Mexico to throw a silvery halo on Gadsden, the border city. A hundred miles of desert lay In its path—a waste of broken ridges, dry arroyos, and sandy plains—snd then suddenly, as If by magic, the city rose gleaming in the sun. It was a big city, for the West, and swarming with traffic and men. Its broad main street, lined with brick buildings and throbbing with automo biles, ran from the railroad straight to the south until, at a line, it stopped short and was lost in the desert. That line which marked the sudden end of growth and progress was the border of the United States; the desert was Mexico. And the difference was not in the land, but in the government. As the morning air grew warm and the hoar frost dripped down from the roofs the idlers of the town crept forth, leaving chill lodgings and stale saloons for the street corners and the sun. Against the dead wall of a big store the Mexicans gathered in shivering groups, their blankets wrapped around their necks and their brown ankles bare to the wind. On another corner a bunch of cowboys stood clannishly aloiof, eying the passing crowd for oth ers of their kind. In this dun stream which flowed under the morning sun there were min ing men, with high-laced boots and bulging pockets; graybeards, with the gossip of the town in their cheeks; hoboes, still wearing their eastern capg and still rustling for a quarter to eat on; somber-eyed refugees and sol diers of fortune from Mexico—but idlers all, and each seeking bis class and kind. If any women passed that way they walked fast, looking neither to the right nor to the left; for they, too, be ing so few, missed their class and kind. Gadsden had become a city of men, huge-llmbed and powerful and with a questing look in their eyes; a city of adventurers gathered from the ends of the world. A common calamity had driven them from their mines and ranches and glutted the town with men, for the war wae on in Mexico and from the farthermost corners of Sonora they still came, hot from some new scene of murder and pillage, to add so the general discontent. As the day wore on tho crowd on the bank corner, where the refugees made their stand, changed its com plexion, grew big, and stretched far up the street. Men stood in shifting groups, talking, arguing, gazing mood ily at those who passed. Here were hawk-eyed Texas cattle men, thinking of their scattered herds at Mababi or El Tig re; mining men, with idle prospects and deserted mines as far south as the Rio Yaqul; milk men. ranchers and men of trades; all driven In from below the line and all chafing at the leash. While a hundred I petty chiefs stood out against Madero and lived by ransom and loot, they must cool their heels In Gadsden and wait for the end to come. Into this seething mass of the dis possessed, many of whom had lost a fortune by the war, there came two more, with their faces still drawn and red from hard tiding through the cold. They stepped forth from the marble entrance of the big hotel and swung off down the street to see the town. They walked slowly, gazing into the strange faces In the vague hope of finding some friend; and Gadsden, not to be outdone, looked them over curi ously .wondered whence they had come. 1 The bunch of cowboys, etlll loitering on the corner, glanced scornfully at the smaller man, who sported a pair of puttees—and then at the big man'a feet Finding them encased in pros pector's shoes thejl stared dumbly at his wind-burned face and muttered among themselves. He was tall, and broad across the shoulders, with far-eeeing blue eyes and a mop of light hair; and be walked on his toes, stiff-legged, swaying from his hips like a man on horseback. The rumble of comment rose up again as he racked past and then a cowboy voice observed: "HI bet ye he's a cow-punch!" The big man looked back at them mockingly out of the corner of his eye .and went on without a word, c. l ii? Ife* of cowboys that they can tell another puncher at a glance, but they are not alone in this —there are other crafts that leave their mark and other men ae shrewd. A group of mining men took one look at the smaller man, noting the candle-grease on his corduroys and the intelligence In his eyes; and to them the big man was no more than a laborer—or a shift-boss at most—and the little man was one of their kind. Every line in his mobile face spoke of intellect and decision, and as they walked it was he who did the talking while the big man only nodded and smiled. They took a turn or two up the street, now drifting into some clamor oue saloon, now standing at gaze on the sidewalk; and as the drinks began to work, the little man became more and more animated, the big man more and more amiable in his assent and silence. Then they passed the crowd of refu gees they stopped and listened, com menting on the various opinions by an exchange of knowing smiles. An old prospector, white-haired and tanned to a tropic brown, finally turned upon a presumptuous optimist and the little man nodded approvingly ae he hoard him express his views. "You can say what you please,” the prospector ended, "but I’m going to keep out of that country. I've knowed them Mexicans for thirty years now and I'm telling you they’re gifting treacherous. It don’t do no good to have your gun with you—they’ll shoot you from behind a rock—and if they can’t git you that way, they’ll knife you in your sleep. * "I’ve noticed a big change In them paisanos since this war come on. Be fore Madero made his break they used to be scared of Americans—thought if they killed one of ue the rest would cross the border and eat ’em up. What few times they did tackle a white man he generally give a good account of himself, too, and I’ve traveled them trails for years without hardly know ing what it was to be afraid of any body; but I tell you it’s entirely dif ferent over there now." “Sure! That’s right!” spoke up tae little man, with spirit “You’re talk ing more sense than any man on the street. I guess I ought to know —I’ve been down there and through it all — and it’s got so now that you can’t trust any of ’em. My pardner and I came clear from the Sierra Madres, riding nights, and we comp pretty near know ing—hey, Bud?” “That’s right,” observed Bud, the big man, with a reminiscent grin, “I begin to think them fellers would get us, for a while!” "Mining men?” inquired the old prospector politely. "Working on a lease,” said the little man briefly. “Owner got scared out and let us in on shares. But no more for muh—this will hold me for quite a while, I can tell you!” "Here, too,” agreed the big man, turning to go. “Arizona is good enough for me—-come on, Phil!” “Where to?” The little man drew back half resentfully, and then he changed his mind. “All right,” he said, falling into step, “a gin fizz for mine!" "Not on an empty stomach,” ad monished his pardner; “you might get lit up and tell somebody all you know. How about something to eat?” “Good! But where 're you going?” The big man was leading off down a side street, and once more they came to a halt. "Jim s place—it’s a lunch-counter,” he explained laconically. "The hotel's all right, and maybe that was a break fast we got, but I get hungry waiting that way. Gimme a lunch-counter, where I can wrop my legs around a stool and watch the cook turn ’em over. Come on—l been there before." An expression of pitying tolerance came over the little man's face as he listened to this rhapsody on the quick lunch, but he drew away reluctantly. "Aw, come on, Bud,” he pleaded. “Have a little class! What’s the use of winning a stake If you've got to eat at a dog-joint? And besides —say, that was a peach of a girl that waited on us this morning! Did you notice her hair? She was a pippin!” The big man waggled bis hand re signedly and started on his way. “All right, pardner,” he observed; “if that's the deal she’s probably look ing for you. 11l meet you in the room.” “Aw, come on!” urged the other, but his heart was not in it, and be turned gaily away up the main street. Left to himself, the big man went on to his lunch-counter, where be ordered oysters, "A dosen in the milk." Then he ordered a beefsteak, to make up for several he had missed, and asked the cook to fry it rare. He was Just negotiating for a can of pears that had caught his eye when an old man came in and took the stool beside him, pick ing up the menu with trembling hand. "Give me a cup of coffee,” be said to the waiter, “and”-he gased at the bill of fare carefully—“and a roast-beef sandwich. No, Just the coffee!” he corrected, and at that Bud gave him a look. He was a small man, shabbily dressed end with scraggy whiskers, and his nose was very red. =By DANE COOLIDGE= Author of ■THE FIGHTING FOOL,” “HIDDEN WATERS," “THE TEXICAN,” Etc. Illustrations by DON J. LAVIN A. Munsey.) (Copyright, 1914, by “Here,” called Bud, coming to an In stant conclusion, “give Tm his sand wich; I’ll pay for It!” “All right,” anwered the waiter, who was no other than Sunny Jim, the pro prietor, and, whisking up a sandwich from the sideboard, he set it before the old man, who glanced at him In silence. For a fraction of a second he regarded the sandwich apathetically; then, with the aid of his coffee, he made away with it and slipped down off his stool. . , “Say," observed the proprietor, as Bud was paying bis bill, “do you know ! who that old-timer was?” ! “What old-timer?” Inquired Bud, who bad forgotten his brusk benefac tion. “Why, that old feller that you treat ed to the sandwich.” “Oh —him! Some old drunk around town?” hazarded Bud. “Well, he’s that, too,” conceded Sunny Jim, with a smile. “But lemma tell you, pardner, If you had half the rocks that old boy’s got you wouldn’t need to punch any more cows. That’s Henry Kruger, the mgn that Just sold the Cross-Cut mine for fifty thousand cash, and he’s got more besides.” “Huhl” grunted Bud, “he sure don’t look it! Say, why didn't you put me wise? Now I've got to hunt him up and apologize.” “Oh, that’s all right,” assured the proprietor; “he won’t take any offense. That’s Just like old Henry—he’s kinder queer that way.” “Well, I’U go and see him, anyway," said Bua. “He might think I was hutting in.” And then, going about his duty with philosophical calm, he ambled off, stiff legged, down the street. CHAPTER 11. It was not difficult to And Henry Kruger In Gadsden. The barkeepers, those efficient purveyors of informa tion and drinks, knew blm as they : knew their thumbs, and a casual round of the saloons soon located him In the back room of the Waldorf. “Say,” began Bud, walking bluffly up to him, “the proprietor of that res taurant back there tells me I made a "We All of Ue Make Our Mletakee." mistake when I insisted on paying for your meal. I Jest wanted to let you know—" ‘‘Oh, that's all right, young man," returned Old Henry, looking up with a humorous smile; "we all of us make our mistakes. I knowed you didn’t mean no offense and so I never took none. Fact Is, I liked you all the bet. ter for It This country Is getting set. tied up with a class of people that never give a nickel to nobody. You paid for that meal like It was nothing, an<* never so much as looked at me. Bit down, sit down—l want to talk to you!" They sat down by the stove and fell Into a friendly conversation In which nothing more was said of the late In* advertence, but when Bud rose to go the old man beckoned him back. “Hold on,” he protested; “don't go off mad. I want to have a talk with you on business. You seem to be a pretty good young fellosr—maybe we can make some dicker. What are you looking for In these parts?” "Well,” responded Bud, “some kind of a leasing proposition, I reckon. Me and my psrdner Jest come In from Mexico, over near the Chihuahua line, and we don’t hardly know what w# do want yet." “Yes, I’ve noticed that partner of yours,” remarked Henry Kruger dryly. “He's a great talker. I wss listening to you boys out on the street there, having nothing else to do much, and being kinder on the lookout for a man, anyway, and it struclem* I liked your line of talk best.” "You're easy satisfied, then," ob served Bud, with a grin, "I norer said • hardly." AUGUSTA HERALD, AUGUSTA, GA. • That s it,” returned Kruger signifi cantly; “this Job I’ve got calls for a man like that.” Well, Phil's all right,” spoke up Bud, with sudden warmth. “We been pardners for two years now and he never give nothing away yet! He talks, but he don’t forget himself. And the way lie can palaver them Mexicans is a wonder.” “Very likely, very likely,” agreed Kruger, and then he sat a while In silence. “We got a few thousand dollars with us, too,” volunteered Bud at last. “I’m a good worker, If that’s what you want —and Phil, he’s a mining engineer.” “Um-m,” grunted Kruger, tugging at his beard, but he did not come out with his proposal. “I tell you,” he said at last. "I’m not doing much talking about this proposition of mine. It’s a big thing, and somebody might beat me to it. You know what I am, I guess. I’ve pulled off some of the biggest deals in this country for a poor man, and I don't make many mistakes—not ahout mineral, anyway. And when I tell you that this lw rich —you’re talking with a man that knows.” He fixed his shrewd, blue eyes on the young man’s open countenance an,d waited for him to speak. ‘‘That's right,” he continued, as Bud finally nodded non-committally; “she’s sure rich. I’ve had an eye on this proposition far years—Just waiting for the right time to come. And now it’s come! All I need is the man. It ain’t a dangerous undertaking—least wise I don’t think It Is —but I got to have somebody I can trust. I’m willing to pay you good wages, or I’ll let you In on the deal—but you’ll hare to go down Into Mexico.” ■Nothin’ doing!” responded Bud with instant decision. "If It’s in Ari zona I’ll talk to you, brt no more Mex ico for me. I’ve got something pretty good down there myself, as far as that goes.” “What’s the matter T’ inquired Kru ger, set back by the abrupt refusal; “scared V‘ “Yes, I’m scared," admitted Bud, and he challenged the old man with his eyes. “Must have had a little trouble, then ?” “Well, you might call It that,” agreed Bud. “We been on the dodge for a month. A bunch of revoltosos tried to get our treasure, and when we skipped out on ’em they tried to get us." “Well,” continued Kruger, “this proposition of mine Is different. You was over in the Sierra Madres, where the natives are bad. These Sonora Mexicans ain't like them Chihuahua fellers —they're Americanized. I’ll tell you, If It wasn’t that the people would know me I’d go down after this mine myself. The country’s perfectly quiet. There’s lots of Americans down there yet, and they don’t even know there Is a revolution. It ain't far from the rail road, you see, and that makes a lot of difference.” He lowered his voice to a confi dential whisper as be revealed the ap proximate locality of his bonanza, but Bud remained unimpressed. “Yes,” he said, “we was near a rail road—the Northwestern—and seemed like them red-flaggers did nothing else but burn bridges and ditch supply trains. When they finally whipped ’em off the whole bunch took to the hills. That’s where we got It again.” "Well,” argued Kruger, “this rail road of ours la all right, and they run a train over It every day. The con centrator at Fortuna”—he lowered hie voice again—"hasn't been shut dpwn a day, and you’ll be within fifteen miles of that town. No,” he whispered; “I could get a hundred Americana to go in on this tomorrow, as far’s the revo lution’s concerned. It ain’t dangerous, hut 1 want somebody I can trust.” "Nope," pronounced Bud, rising pon derously to his feet; “If it was this side the line I’d stay with you till the hair slipped, on anything, but—” “Well, let’s talk It over again some time,” urged Kruger, following him along out “It ain’t often I get took with a young feller the way I was with you, and I believe we can make It yet Where are you staying In town?” “Up at the Cochise." sajd Bud. “Come on with me—l told my pardner I'd meet him there.” They turned up the broad main street and passed In through the pol ished stone portals of the Cochise,"a hotel eo spacious In Its Interior and so richly appointed in its furnishings that a New Yorker, waking up there, might easily Imagine himself on Fifth ave nue. It was hardly a place to be looked for In the West, and as Bud led the way across the echoing lobby to a pair of stuffed chairs he had a vague feel ing of being In church. Stained-glass windows above the winding stairways let In a soft light, and on the tower ing pillars of marble were emblazoned prlckly-pears as an emblem of the West. From the darkened balconies above, half-seen women looked down curiously as they entered, snd In the broad lobby below were gathered the prosperous citizens of the land. There were cattlemen, still wearing their boots and overalls, the better to attend to their shipping; mining men, Just as they had come from the hills; | and others more elegantly dressed— but they all had a nod for Henry Kru ger. He was a man of mark, os Bud j could see in a minute; hut It he hnd other business with those who hailed him he let it pass and took out a rank brier pipe, which he puffed while Bud smoked a cigarette. They were sitting together in a friendly silence when Phil came out of the dining room, but as he drew near the old man nodded to Bud and went i over to apeak to the clerk. “Who was that old-timer you were talking to?” inquired Phil, as he sank down in the vacant chair. “Looks like I the-morulng-after with him, don’t it?” ”Um,’’ grunted Bud; “reckon It is Name's Kruger.” “What—the mining man?” “That’s right.” “Well,” exclaimed Phil, “what in the world was he talking to you about?” “Oh, some kind of a mining deal,” grumbled Bud. "Wanted me to go down into Mexico!" “What’d you tell him?" challenged the little man, sitting up suddenly in his chair. “Say, that old boy’s got rocks!” “He can keep ’em for all of me,” ob served Bud comfortably. "You know what I think about Mexico.” “Sure; but wbat was his proposi tion? What did he want you to do?” “Search me! He was mighty mys terious about it. Said he wanted a man he could trust” “Well, holy Moses, Bud!” orfed Phil, “wake up! Didn't you get his proposi tion?” "No, he wasn’t talking about It. Sold it was a good tiling and he’d pay mo well; qr let me In on the deal; but ; when he hollered Mexico I quit I’ve got a plenty.’’ “Yes, ' 'it—” the little man choked and could say no more. “Well, you’re one Jim dandy business man, Bud Hooker 1” he burst out at last “You’d let—’’ “Well, wbat’s the matter?” demand ed Hooker defiantly. “Do you want to go back into Mexico? Nor me, neither! What you kicking about?” “You might have led blm on and got the scheme, anyway. Maybe there’s a million In It. Come on, let’s go over and talk to him. I’d take a chance, If It was good enough-” “Aw, don’t be a fool, Phil,” urged the cowboy plaintively. “We've got no call to hear his scheme unless we want to go In on It. Leave him alone snd he’ll do something for us on this side. Oh, crlpes, what’s the matter with you ?” He heaved himself reluctantly np out of his chair and moved over to where Kruger was sitting. “Mr. Kruger,’’ he said, as the old man turned to meet him, "I’ll make you acquainted with Mr. Ds Lancey, .my pardner. My name’s Hooker.” "Glad to know you, Hooker,” re sponded Kruger, shaking him by the hand. “How'do, Mr. De Lancey.” He gave Phil a rather crusty nod as be spoke, but De Lancey wub dragging up another chair and failed to notice. “Mr. Hooker was telling me about some proposition you had, to go down into Mexico,” he began, drawing up closer while the old man watched him from under his eyebrows. “That's one tough country to do business in right now, but at the same time—” “The country’s perfectly quiet,” put In Kruger—"perfectly quiet.” “Well, maybe so,” qualified De Lan cey; "but when it comes to getting In supplies—” “Not a bit of trouble In the world,” said the old man crabbedly. “Not a bit." “Well,” came baok De Lancey, "what’s the matter, then? What Is the proposition, anyway?” Henry Kruger blinked and eyed him Intently. ‘‘l’ve stated the proposition to Hook er,” he said, "and he refused It That’s enough, ain’t it?” De Lancey laughed snd turned away. “Well, yes, I guess It Is.” Then, In passing, he said to Bud: “Go ahead and talk to him.” He walked away, lighting & cigarette and smiling good-naturedly, and the old-timer turned to Bud. “That’s a smart man you’ve got for a pardner,” he remarked, "A smart man. You want to look out,” be added, “or he’ll get away with you." "Nope,’ sold Hud. “You don't know him like I do. He’s straight as s die.” “A man can be straight and still get away with you,” observed the veteran shrewdly. “Yes, Indeed." He paused to let this bit of wisdom sink in, and then he spoke again. “You’d better quit—while you’re lucky,” he suggested. "You quit and come with me,” he urged, “and If we strike it I’ll make you a rich man. I don’t need your pardner on this deal. I need Just on* man that can keep bis bead shut. Listen now; I'll tell you what it Is. "I know whsre there’s s lost mine down In Mexloo. If I’d tell you the name you'd know It In a minute, and It’s free gold, too. Now there’s a fel low that had that land located for ten years, but he couldn’t find the lead. D'ye see? And when this second revo lution came on he let It go—he neg lected to pay his mining taxes and let it go back to the government And now all I want is a quiet man to slip In snd denounce that land snd open up tha lead. Here, look at this!” He went down into bis pocket and brought out a buckskin sack, from which be banded over a piece of wall worn quartz. "That’s the rock,” he said. "She runs four hundred dollars to the ton, 1 and the ledge Is eight Inches wide be tween the wails. Nica ors, eh? And she lays between shale and porphyry.” His eyes sparkled as he carefully replaced the specimen, and then he looked up at Bud. “I’ll let you in on that,” he said, “half and half—-or I'll pay two hundred dollars a month and a bonus. You alone. Now how about it?” For a moment Hooker looked at him as if to read his thoughts, then be shook his head and exhaled his smoke regretfully. “Nope,” he said. “Me and Phil are pardners. We work together." “I’ll give you three hundred!" cried Kruger, half rising in his chair. "Nope,” grunted Bud, "we’re pard ners.” “Huh!” snorted the mining man, and flung away in disgust. But as Ue ■l'll Give Yoti Throe Hundred!” Cried Kruger. neared the door a new thought struck him and he came as quickly back. "You can do what you please about your pardner," he said. "I'm talking to you I Now—will you think about ltr “Bure!” returned Hooker. “Well, then,” snapped Kruger, “meet me at the Waldorf In au hour I” CHAPTER 111. On the untrammeled frontier, where most men are willing to pass for what they are without keeping up any “front,” much of the private business, as well as the general devilment, le transacted In the back rooms of sa loons. The Waldorf was nicely fur nished In this regard. After a drink at the har, in which Do Lancey and Hooker Joined, Henry Kruger led the way casually to the rear, and in a few moments they were safely cloeoted. “Now," began Kruger, as he took a seat by the table and faced them with snapping eyes, “the first thing I want to make plain to you gentlemen is. If I make any deal today It’s to be with Mr. Hooker. If you boys are pardners you can talk It over together, but I deal with one man, and that’s Hooker. “All right?" he Inquired, glancing at De Lancey, and that young man nodded Indulgently. “Very well, then,” resumed Kruger, "now to get down to business. This mine that I'm talking about Is located down here in Sonora within three hours’ ride of a big American camp. It Isn’t any old Spanish mine, or lost padre layout; it’e a well-defined ledge running three or four hundred dollars to the ton —and I know right where It 1», too. “What I want to do Is to establish the title to It now, while this revolu tion Is going on, and make a bonanza out of It afterward. Of course, It you boys don't want to go back into Mex ico, that settles it; but If you do go, and I let you In on the deal, you've got to see It through or I’ll lose the whole thing. So make up your minds, and if you say you’ll go, I want you to stick to It!” “Well go, all right,” spoke up De Lancey, "If It’s rich enough.” “How about you?” Inquired Kruger, turning Impatiently on Bud; “will you go?” “Yes, I’ll go,” answered Bud sullen ly. “But I ain’t stuck on the lob," he added. “Jest about get it opened up when a bunch of rebels will Jump in and take everything we’ve got.” "Well, you get a title to it and pay your taxes and you can come out, then,” conceded Henry Kruger. "No,” grumbled Hooker, "If I go 111 stay with It.” He glanced at his pard ner at this, but he, for one, did not seem to be worried. "I’U try anything—once I” he ob served with a sprightly sir, and Bud grinned sardonically at the well-worn phrase. “Well,” said Kruger, gating inquir ingly from ons to the other, "la It a go? Will you shake hands on it?” “What’s the proposition?" broke la De Lancey eagerly. "The deal is between me and Hooker,” corrected Kruger. "I’ll give him three hundred a month, or an equal share In the mine, expenses to be shared -between us.” "Make It equal shares,” said Hook er, holding out his hand, "and I’U give halt of mine to Phil.” “AU right, my boy I” cried the old men, suddenly clapping him on the shoulder, ‘Til go you—snd you'll never regret It,” he added significantly. Then, throwing off the air of guarded secrecy which had characterized hit actions so tar, be sat down end began to talk. "Boys," he said, ‘Tm feeling lucky today or I’d never have closed this deal. I’m letting you In on one of the biggest things that's ever been found in Sonora. Just to show you how good It is, here’s my smelter receipts for eight hundred pounds of picked ore— one thousand and twenty-two dollars!: That’s the first and last ore that’s ever been shipped from the old Eagle Tall. I dug it out myself, and sacked it and shipped it; and then some of them crooked Mexican officials tried to beat ue out of my title and I blowed up the whole works with dynamite I "Yes, sir, clean as a whistle! I had my powder stored away in the drift, and the minute I found out I was euchred I laid a fuse to it and brought the whole mountain down. That was ten years ago, and old Aragon and the agente mineral have had the land located ever since. "I bet they’ve spent five thousand pesos trying to find that lead, but be ing nothing but a bunch of Ignorant Mexicans, of course they never found nothing. Then Francisco Madero comes In and fires the agente mineral off his job and old Aragon lets the land revert for taxes. I’ve got a Mexican that keepß mo posted, and ever since he sent me word that the title had lapsed I've been crazy to relocate that claim. "Well, now, that don’t look so bad. does It?” he asked, beaming paternally at Bud. “There ain’t a man in town that wouldn’t have Jumped at the chance. If I was where I could talk about It, but that’s Just what I couldn’t do. I had to find some stranger that wouldn’t sense what mine I was talk ing about and then git him to go In oa It blind. “Now here's the way I’m fixed, boys,” he exclaimed, brushing his un kempt beard and smiling craftily. “When I dynamited the Eagle Tail it was mine by rights, but Cipriano Ara gon—he’s the big Mexican down at old Fortune —and Morales, the mineral agent, had buncoed me out of the title, "80, according to law, 1 blowed up their mine, and If I ever showed up down there I reckon they’d throw me into JalL And If at any time they find out that you're working for me, why, we’re ditched—that’s alii They’ll put you out of business. So, after we’ve made our agreement and I've told you what to do, I don’t want to hear a word out of you—l don’t want you to come near me, nor even write me a letter—Just go ahead the best you can until you win out or go broke. "It ain’t a hard proposition,” he continued, “If you keep your mouth shut, but If they tumble, It’ll be a fight to a flnieh. I’m not saying this for you. Hooker, because I know you're safe; I'm saying it for your pardner here. You talk too much, Mr. De Lan cey,” he chided, eying him with sud den severity. "I’m afraid of ye!” “Ail right,’ broke in Hooker good naturedly, “I reckon we understand. Now go ahead and tell us where this mine Is and who there Is down there to look out for.” 'The man to look out for,” an •wered Kruger with venom, “Is Cipri ano Aragon. He’s the man that bilked me out of the mine once, and he'll do It again if he can. When I went down there—lt was ten years and more ago —I wasn’t on to those Spanish ways of hla, and he was so dog-goned polite and friendly I thought I could trust him anywhere. "He owns a big raneh and mescal still, runs cattle, works a few placers, sends out pack-trains, and hag every Mexican and Indian in the country in debt to him through hla store, so if he happens to want any rough work done there’s always somebody to do It "Well, Just to show you how he did me, I got to nosing round those old Spanish workings east of Fortuna and finally I run across the ledge that I’m telling you about not far from aa abandoned shaft But the Mexicaa mining laws are different from ours, and an American has lots of trouble anyway, so I made a trade with old Aragon that he should locate the claim for me under a power of attorney. Didn’t know him then like I do now. The papers had to be sent to Moctw zuma and Hermoslllo, and to the City of Mexico and back, and while I was waiting around I dug in on this lead and opened up the prettiest vein of quartz you ever saw in your life. Here’s a sample of it. and it’s sure rich." He handed De Lancey the familiar piece of quartz and proceeded with his story. "That ore looked so good to me that I couldn’t wait—l shipped it before I got my title. And right there I made my mistake. When Aragon saw the gold In that rock he just quietly rw corded the concession In bis own name and told me to go to blazes. That’s the greaser of It! So I blew the whole mine up and hit for the border. That's the Dutch of It, I reckon," he added grimly. "Anyway, my old man was Dutch." Ho paueed, smiling over the mem ory of his misplaced credulity, and Hooker and De Lancey Joined in s hearty laugh. From the town bum that he had firat seemed this shabby little man had changed In their eyes until now be was a border Croesus, the mere recital of whose adventures conjured up In their minds visions of gold and hidden treasure, (To Be Continued Tomorrow.) EVERY DAY Is Bargain Day In the WANTS FIVE