“Wherefore and why?” he asked.
“Because every man that’s ever tried to git gold out of it has been compelled to admit, in the end, that he was a fool.”
The stranger laughed lightly, and put the frying pan back on the stove. It was sending up a cheerful odor of bacon fat.
“That sets out a pleasant prospect for me,” he said, smiling.
“So I reckon you’re in to spend yer good money and hard work fer nothin’.”
The stranger stabbed at a slice of the bacon with his fork, turned it over neatly, then looked at Persimmon Pete and the men with him.
“But there’s more ways of killin’ a dog,” he said, “than by chokin’ him to death on bones.”
“Which is what?”
“I’m satisfied that I can get gold where others have failed.”
“Ye can’t git blood out of a turnip,” declared Persimmon Pete.