hard climbing. Van had chosen the shorter, steeper way across the
range. From time to time, where the barren ascent was exceptionally
severe, he swung from the saddle and led the broncho on, to mount
further up as before.

Thus they came in time to a zone of change, over one of the ridges, a
region where rocks and ugliness gave way to a growth of brush and
stunted trees. These were the outposts, ragged, dwarfed, and warped,
of a finer growth beyond.

Fifteen miles away, down between the hills, flowed a tortuous stream,
by courtesy called a river. It sometimes rose in a turgid flood, but
more often it sank and delivered up its ghost to such an extent that a
man could have held it in his hat. Nevertheless some greenery
flourished on its banks.

When Van at last could oversee the vast, unpeopled lands of the Piute
Indian reservation, near the boundary of which his salted claim had
been staked, he had only a mile or so to ride, and all the way down
hill.

He came to the property by eleven o'clock of the morning. He looked
about reflectively. The rough board cabin and the rougher shaft-house
were scarcely worth knocking down for lumber. There, on the big,
barren dike, were several tunnels and prospects, in addition to the
shaft, all "workings" that Briggs had opened up in his labors on the
ledge. They were mere yawning mockeries of mining, but at least had
served a charlatan's requirements. A few tools lay about, abominably
neglected.