“Found anything?”
“Of this—much.” Concho took from his saddle bags a lump of greyish iron ore, studded here and there with star points of pyrites. The stranger said nothing, but his eye looked a diabolical suggestion.
“You are lucky, friend Greaser.”
“Eh?”
“It IS silver.”
“How know you this?”
“It is my business. I'm a metallurgist.”
“And you can say what shall be silver and what is not.”
“Yes,—see here!” The stranger took from his saddle bags a little leather case containing some half dozen phials. One, enwrapped in dark-blue paper, he held up to Concho.
“This contains a preparation of silver.”