“They ain’t worth powder and shot. Now, a bear is a gentleman ‘side of a lion—and even a little old kiote ain’t so bad. The lion’s so blamed crafty and sly. Ha! it always does me good to rope one of them.”
They rode steadily on the trail to the mines after that. It was scarcely more than fifteen miles to the claims which had been the site, some years before, of a thriving mining camp, but was now a deserted town of tumble-down shanties, corrugated iron shacks, and the rustied skeletons of machinery at the mouths of certain shafts. Money had been spent freely by individuals and corporations in seeking to develop the various “leads” believed by the first prospectors to be hidden under the surface of the earth at Tintacker. But if the silver was there it was so well hidden that most of the miners had finally “gone broke” attempting to uncover the riches of silver ore of which the first specimens discovered had given promise.
“The Tintacker Lode” it had been originally called, in the enthusiasm of its discoverers. But unless this strange prospector, who had hung about the abandoned claims for so many months, had struck into a new vein, the silver horde had quite “petered out.” Of this fact Ruth was pretty positive from all the lawyer and Old Bill Hicks had told her. Uncle Jabez had gone into the scheme of re-opening the Tintacker on the strength of the vacuum-cleaner agent’s personality and some specimens of silver ore that might have been dug a thousand miles from the site of the Tintacker claims.
“Don’t look like there was anybody to home,” grunted Jib Pottoway, as they rode up the last rise to the abandoned camp.
“Why! it’s a wreck,” gasped Ruth.
“You bet! There’s hundreds of these little fly-by-night mining camps in this here Western country. And many a man’s hopes are buried under the litter of those caved-in roofs. Hullo!”
“What’s the matter?” asked Ruth, startled as she saw Jib draw his gun suddenly.
“What’s that kiote doing diggin’ under that door?” muttered the Indian.
The skulking beast quickly disappeared and Jib did not fire. He rode his pony directly to the shack—one of the best of the group—and hammered on the door (which was closed) with the butt of his pistol.
“Hullo, in there!” he growled.