it. Monte & Pete came in about 1 & tied them up. Very hot.
Hottest day yet, even the breeze scorching. Test of ore showed
best yet. One half of solution in tube turning to chloride of
gold, 3 tests showing same. Burros except Ed & Cora do not come
in days any more. Bud made a gate for kitchen to keep burros out.

The next morning it was that Cash cut the ball of his right
thumb open on the sharp edge of a tomato can. He wanted the diary
to go on as usual. He had promised, he said, to keep one for the
widow who wanted a record of the way the work was carried on, and
the progress made. Bud could not see that there had been much
progress, except as a matter of miles. Put a speedometer on one
of his legs, he told Cash, and he'd bet it would register more
mileage chasing after them fool burros than his auto stage could
show after a full season. As for working the widow's claim, it
was not worth working, from all he could judge of it. And if it
were full of gold as the United States treasury, the burros took
up all their time so they couldn't do much. Between doggone stock
drinking or not drinking and the darn fool diary that had to be
kept, Bud opined that they needed an extra hand or two. Bud was
peevish, these days. Gila Bend had exasperated him because it was
not the town it called itself, but a huddle of adobe huts. He had
come away in the sour mood of a thirsty man who finds an alkali
spring sparkling deceptively under a rock. Furthermore, the
nights had been hot and the mosquitoes a humming torment. And as
a last affliction he was called upon to keep the diary going. He
did it, faithfully enough but in a fashion of his own.

First he read back a few pages to get the hang of the thing.
Then he shook down Cash's fountain pen, that dried quickly in