It was Joe Hurley, standing with Hunt on Main Street, who was first to welcome Steve Siebert as he came along, riding his lean mare and towing the burro that looked as though it might have been carved rudely out of desert rock.
“Well, old-timer, I certainly am glad to see you,” the mining man said. “What luck?”
“Oh, so-so,” croaked the prospector.
“Ain’t going to tell us you worked all summer just to get free air?” and Joe chuckled.
“Sumpin’ like it,” replied Siebert, and grinned toothlessly.
“You do beat my time! Goin’ to come over to the Great Hope? There’s a job for you.”
“Mighty nice of you, Joe. I’ll come,” said the old man, nodding.
“And not a darn thing to show for all your pickin’ and smellin’ about the Topaz since spring?”
“Not what you’d call a bonanza.”
“Youbetcha!” ejaculated Hurley. He turned with a grin to Hunt. “Meet Parson Hunt, Steve. We’ve done more in the Pass this summer than you have on the desert. We’ve got us a real parson, and we’re aimin’ to have a sure-enough church.”