the woods ez hez been burning six months; it hain't, in course, got the
advantages o' the old one, for it's nat'ral heat. But I'm keeping that
heat up. I've got a hole where I kin watch it every four hours. When
the time comes, I'm thar! Don't you see? That's me! that's David
Fairley,--that's the old man,--you bet!"

"That's so," said Lance, curtly. "And now, Mr. Fairley, if you'll
hand me over a coat or a jacket till I can get past these fogs on the
Monterey road, I won't keep you from your diamond pit." He threw down a
handful of silver on the table.

"Ther's a deerskin jacket yer," said the old man, "that one o' them
vaqueros left for the price of a bottle of whiskey."

"I reckon it wouldn't suit the stranger," said Flip, dubiously producing
a much-worn, slashed, and braided vaquero's jacket. But it did suit
Lance, who found it warm, and also had suddenly found a certain
satisfaction in opposing Flip. When he had put it on, and nodded coldly
to the old man, and carelessly to Flip, he walked to the door.

"If you're going to take the Monterey road, I can show you a short cut
to it," said Flip, with a certain kind of shy civility.

The paternal Fairley groaned. "That's it; let the chickens and the ranch
go to thunder, as long as there's a stranger to trapse round with; go
on!"

Lance would have made some savage reply, but Flip interrupted. "You know
yourself, Dad, it's a blind trail, and as that 'ere constable that kem
out here hunting French Pete, couldn't find it, and had to go round by