Next morning Basil Filer drifted into town, driving his recaptured burros ahead of him. Silently he worked at packing the bags and throwing diamond hitches.
Jerkline Jo and Hiram stood laughing at the gurgling imps of the desert, and Jo went up to Filer.
"What does this mean?" she asked. "You're all packed up for a trip."
The weird old eyes looked up at her queerly. "We're goin'—out there," croaked Filer, a trembling finger pointing toward the fragrant desert. "It's spring, Baby Jean—and now's the time to hunt for gold, when there's lots o' feed for the little fellas."
"Gold!" cried Jo. "Why, man, you've so much money coming to you that you can't spend it in the rest of your natural life."
"Money?" he said absently. "Yes—you've done me han'some, Baby Jean. But I ain't got much use for money. Money's only a grubstake, so's you c'n buy things and go out and hunt for gold. Good-by, folks! Next fall you'll see me and the little fellas ag'in. Hi, Muta! Lead out!"
And, gripping his staff, he limped off in the wake of his long-eared companions, swinging their packs from side to side as a mother rocks the cradle.
"They're all like that," said a man. "It's the hunt for it that keeps 'em goin'. They don't know what to do with it when they get it."
The dark eyes of Jerkline Jo were full of dreams.
"Yes, we're all like that, I imagine," she said.