longer, when you win--"

He kissed his grimy paw airily and flung it into space.

"'The Lord is my shepherd,' he quoted, 'I shall not want.' This morning
He left the door opened and I wandered into His Treasure House, so I
guess I'll get busy and grab what I can before the Night Watchman comes
around. Ever see the Night Watchman, Boston? I have. He's a grave old
party with a long beard, and he carries a scythe. You see him when
you're thirsty, and--well, in the pursuit of my inborn hobby for taking
chances, I'll introduce you to him this trip. Permit me to remind you
once more of the consequences if you help yourself to the water without
consulting me. It'll militate against your chances of getting to the
land office first."

The Desert Rat helped the mozo unpack the burros, while the man from
Boston tore some pages from his notebook and proceeded to write out his
location notices and cache them in monuments which he built beside
those of his predecessors. He even copied the exact wording on the
Desert Rat's notices. He forgot his blistered heel and worked with
prodigious energy and interest, receiving with dogged silent disdain
the humorous sallies of the Desert Rat, to whom the other's sudden
industry was a source of infinite amusement. The Desert Rat and the
Indian were busy with pans and prospector's picks gouging out
"stringers" and crevices and picking up scattered pieces of "jewelry"
rock. When all the "color" in sight had been cleaned up, the Desert
Rat produced a drill and a stick of dynamite from the pack, put in a
"shot" and uncovered a pocket of such richness that even the stolid
Cahuilla could not forbear indulgence in one of his infrequent Spanish
expletives. It was a deposit of rotten honeycombed rock that was nine-