"Of us there are four."

The stranger looked around.

"In camp,--a league beyond," explained the Mexican.

"Found anything?"

"Of this--much." Concho took from his saddle bags a lump of greyish iron
ore, studded here and there with star points of pyrites. The stranger
said nothing, but his eye looked a diabolical suggestion.

"You are lucky, friend Greaser."

"Eh?"

"It IS silver."

"How know you this?"

"It is my business. I'm a metallurgist."

"And you can say what shall be silver and what is not."

"Yes,--see here!" The stranger took from his saddle bags a little
leather case containing some half dozen phials. One, enwrapped in
dark-blue paper, he held up to Concho.

"This contains a preparation of silver."