"No shucks about it. That we have our ranch to-day with a sure-enough producing gold mine in one corner of it is all due to you."
"Shucks, suppose now those handwritin' experts Judge Dolan got from Chicago hadn't been able to prove at the time that the forgery and the fifty or sixty copies of yore dad's name were written by the same hand, ink, and pen? Suppose now they hadn't? What then? Where'd you be, I'd like to know? Nawsir, you give them the credit. They deserve it. Well, I'm shore glad yo're all gonna be rich, Molly. It's fine. That's what it is—fine—great. Well, I've got to be driftin' along. I'm going to meet Swing in town. We're riding south Arizona way to-morrow."
"Arizona!"
"Yeah, we're going to give the mining game a whirl."
"Why—why not give it a whirl up here in this country?"
"Because there ain't another mine like yores in the territory. No, we'll go south. Swing wants to go—been wanting to go for some time."
"Bub-but I thought you were going to stay up here," persisted Molly, her cheeks a little white.
"Not—not now," Racey said, hastily. "So long, take care of yoreself."
He reached for her hand, gave it a quick squeeze, then picked up his hat and walked out of the house without another word or a backward look.
* * * * *