untidily at haphazard, mushroom growths of a day born of a lucky
"strike." Into the valleys and up and down the hillsides ran a network
of rails for trolley and steam cars. Everywhere were the open tunnel
mouths or the frame shaft-houses perched above the gray Titan dump
beards.

The magic that had wonderfully brought all these manifold activities
into being had its talisman in the word "Gold"; but, since Pesquiera had
come neither as a prospector nor investor, he heard with only
half-concealed impatience the easy gossip of his fellow travelers about
the famous ore producers of the district.

It was not until his inattentive ears caught the name of Dick Gordon
that he found interest in the conversation.

"Pardon, sir! Are you acquaint' with Mr. Richard Gordon?" he asked, a
touch of the gentle Spanish accent in his voice.

The man to whom he had spoken, a grizzled, weather-beaten little fellow
in a corduroy suit and white, broad-brimmed felt hat, turned his steady
blue eyes on his questioner a moment before he answered:

"I ought to know him, seeing as I'm his partner."

"Then you can tell me where I may find him?"

"Yes, sir, I can do that. See that streak of red there on the hill--the
one above the big dump. That's the shafthouse of the Last Dollar. Drop
down it about nine hundred feet and strike an airline west by north for
about a quarter of a mile, and you'd be right close to him. He's down