Amethyst

THE desert road curved through the rolling brown hills covered with Joshua trees and straightened itself out for the long, gradual drop into the sweltering little town of Baker. Old Man Thompson had been resting at Yucca Grove. When the shadows of the sagebrush and Joshuas told him that it was about four o’clock in the afternoon, he ambled to the road, adjusted his improvised knapsack, and walked slowly along the grease-soaked strip of hard surface known as the Arrowhead Trail, or U. S. Highway 91. He had sixteen miles of Mojave Desert between himself and Baker. But it was all down grade. Even if he had to walk the whole distance, he could make it in approximately three hours.

Old Man Thompson was not exactly pleasant to look upon. He was tanned, and so dirty that it was difficult to differentiate between tan and dirt. He had a five-day stubble of gray beard. His clothes were soiled and torn, and smelled of sage and perspiration. Only his clear blue eyes were pleasant, and they twinkled in satisfaction as he plodded on, looking not at the road but at the broad vista of arid desert dropping away before him. Far on the horizon he could see a long white splotch. That was Soda Dry Lake.

A car approached from the rear, and Thompson stopped and turned. He did n’t expect to be picked up, but it might happen. Motorists rarely stopped for him. The car was a sedan. 308 As it came on at a high rate of speed, Thompson saw that it contained two passengers — a man driving and a woman beside him. So sure was Thompson that it would speed by that he did n’t bother to raise a supplicating hand. He just looked at the driver. As the car approached it slowed down. It ran perhaps twenty-five yards past him and stopped. Thompson scurried after it. The man opened a rear door, and with a mumbled ‘Thank y’, sir,’ Thompson climbed in. The door slammed. The man threw the car into gear, and in a few seconds it was speeding on down the highway.

I

I had sixteen miles to do before I come to Baker, and I was n’t thinkin’ about much of anything except the amethyst. I calculated I could get into Baker by seven o’clock, and might loaf around a gas station there until some truck driver come in. If he was headin’ west, I figured I had a good chance to bum a ride with him into Yermo, where I could find Joel Curtis. Soda Dry Lake was just showin’ up on the horizon and I knew Baker was just beside it, but I could n’t make out the town yet. A car was burnin’ up the road behind me and I stopped and took a look at it. There was a man and a woman, and I figured there was n’t no chance. But blamed if he did n’t pull up for me, so I hopped after him and got in.

‘Going into Baker?’ he asked me.

I told him I was, but that I was tryin’ to get to Yermo, which was fifty-two miles beyond Baker. He said he was goin’ on, so he’d take me to Yermo. I felt lucky. The woman did n’t say nothin’. She did n’t even look back at me. So I sat there and watched the speedometer climb up to fifty-five. It kind of hung around there. He was a good driver.

‘Goin’ into Los Angeles?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he says.

And with that he shut up and did n’t say anything for a few minutes. The woman did n’t say a word, and I guess the man did n’t want to talk much. But I had my amethyst in my head and I kind of prattled on.

‘When I get to Yermo,’ I said, ‘I can get my old friend Joel Curtis to grubstake me.’

They did n’t say nothin’ at that, so I went on talkin’, not carin’ much if they listened or not. I told them I had been doin’ a little prospectin’. In fact I had spent a lifetime doin’ mostly a little prospectin’. I told them I had been all over the Mojave country from TwentyNine Palms to Death Valley. I’ve seen most all of it. I know that desert like few men know it. I always figured I’d strike it rich, and I did. All I got to do is cash in on it. What I need now is some money or somebody who can promote a mining project. Joel Curtis in Yermo will fit me out, but he ain’t got the money to fix up a mine.

Amethyst is funny stuff. It ain’t like gold. It never starts no amethyst rush. But it’s a mighty lucky strike if you got the real quality. And that’s what I know I got. It’s pretty stuff and hard to find. A lot of damn fools call it quartz and pass it by. Real amethyst is a kind of quartz, but you got to know how to tell it once you find it, and you got to know how to work it, too. No use minin’ it for six months if you could do it in three. You got to know how to work your lode so as to get all there is out of it just as soon as you can. That’s where I shine. I can take that amethyst lode and make twice as much as most any man, because I know how to get it.

I told them that I figured from the looks of this lode and the looks of the stuff that I can clean up a fortune in two or three months. And it won’t cost me much to do it, either. So I said I was feelin’ pretty good about it. And if I can find somebody with a little money to come in with me, that’s all I want. Just need a few hundred dollars or so, and we’ll be rich. That’s the way to make money anyway. Take it out of the earth. None of this speculatin’ on paper. Look at ‘Death Valley Scotty.’ Look at what he’s done. There’s a lot of wealth in the old Mojave, but you got to know how to go after it. Well, I got my hands on a piece of it. Old Man Thompson strikes an amethyst lode. Let ’em laugh at that.

‘Where is this amethyst mine of yours?’ asks the man all of a sudden.

I could tell he was interested, but I was n’t goin’ to give out no information. So I explained to him that a man can’t find a fortune and then tell another man where it is. You gotta use some sense. I told him that my lode was on the east slope of the Shadow Mountains, right near Mesquite Dry Lake. Well, it’s on the east slope of the Shadows all right, but it’s one hell of a distance from Mesquite Lake. So I knew I was n’t givin’ anything away by telling him that.

I brought out some pieces of amethyst — as fine as any I ’ve ever seen anywhere. I showed him these. ’Course he was drivin’ and could n’t examine ’em much. I could tell he did n’t really know much about ’em. But they looked right pretty, and the sun, which was gettin’ down toward the horizon, picked ’em up. When he held ’em up he could see through ’em, they was that clear.

All this time the woman had n’t said nothin’. But he handed her a couple, and she admired ’em.

‘They’re beautiful, are n’t they,’ is all she said, and gave ’em back to me.

‘Madam,’ I says, ‘I could show you a lode of amethyst as big as this-here automobile.’ I was makin’ that up, for the lode was long and not over two feet high, and a good bit of that was n’t no amethyst. But I wanted to give her something to think about. But it hit her husband more’n it did her. He let a whistle out of him and took another good look at one of the pieces. He asked me if I was goin’ to have an assay. I told him I did n’t need no assay. I know amethyst. ’Course I will really have an assay, but it don’t mean a thing to me. I know.

The man wanted to know how I found this lode. So I explained how I’d been prospectin’ on the east slope of the Shadow Mountains. Then one day one of my mules walked off. I trailed it for a couple of miles up a canyon. Near the head of the canyon I found the mule. While I was up there I figured I’d have a look around. I had never been up that canyon before. Well, the result was that I ran on to amethyst in less than an hour. I dug around till I got the lode and was sure of it. Then I collected these pieces, packed down to Valley Wells and left the mules, and struck out for Yermo and Joel Curtis. I had n’t cracked a word to nobody about it, and I told them that they was the first people to see Old Man Thompson’s amethyst.

‘I’m gonna call that mine “The Lost Mule,”’ I said. ‘Kind of fits it.’

Well, I went on talkin’ about amethyst, and I told ’em a lot of things that they did n’t know about it. At first the man seemed to think there would n’t be any real money in it because amethyst ain’t like rubies or diamonds. But I explained that thishere stuff was better than average. I told him how it was the peroxide of iron or a little manganese that made amethyst what it was, and made it more valuable than just common quartz. I told him he would n’t find any amethyst finer than what I had. It was just like stumblin’ onto Captain Kidd’s treasure. All there was to do was to lake it.

Pretty soon the woman asked him if he was going to telephone to Los Angeles from Baker.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I’ve changed my mind. That deal can wait a few days.’

I stopped talkin’ to see if they was goin’ to talk some more. But they both shut up, and pretty soon he began to ask me more questions about amethyst, and how it was mined and marketed, and a lot of other details.

I explained what I knew about it, and we went straight through Baker without stopping. I could see this man was mighty interested in makin’ money in a mine. The idea of quick, easy money pleases everybody, I guess. At any rate, he wanted to know a lot of stuff about claims and rights and ownership, and a lot of legal stuff that I was n’t very sure about myself.

As we talked, the sun began sinking down behind the Cave Mountains to the west of us. It was a regular Mojave sunset. The mountains got purple and the sky was crimson and all the long shadows come out and stretched across the floor of the desert. It got cooler and the mountains began to get darker. The crimson went carmine. The desert got gray, and all the sagebrush kind of melted together until it was all one piece. It was still light, but she began to go fast. The carmine went purple and then blue, and the black sky in the east began to creep over and soak up the blue. Vega came out and pretty soon the North Star, and then it was desert night.

But they did n’t pay much attention to that. The man turned the lights on and kept goin’ at fifty-five miles an hour. We talked some more, and he asked how to get in touch with me. I told him to write to Joel Curtis at Yermo, and that I always see Joel once in two or three months. Then he gave me a card with some Los Angeles address on it, and he said we’d get together right soon. I was glad to have him interested in my amethyst, and he said he had a lawyer in Los Angeles and that they’d both come out to Yermo and fix up a business deal with me, if they could arrange it, in a day or two. I said that was all right with me, and I gave him a piece of amethyst to take in and show his lawyer. He said he’d need it anyway in order to find out if I was right about the quality. I told him that I was sure of it, and that I ought to know it if anybody did.

Pretty soon the lights of Yermo showed up ahead. All incoming automobiles have to stop at Yermo on account of the California laws about fruit. So when the inspection officers began to look ’em over to see if they was bringin’ any fruit in from Nevada, I got out of the car and left them.

II

Myra had n’t said a word since we crossed the state line. I was irritated, and justly so. Perhaps Jack Patten was a good business man. That did n’t mean a thing to me. Just because he was going to take an option on a subdivision prospect, that was no reason why I should try to beat him to it and get the option first. Women are very unreasonable about business affairs. I knew that I had n’t made the money that Jack Patten had made in the last year, but that did n’t worry me. He was about to jump into a new subdivision near Los Angeles. I could n’t see it.

Real estate is still sluggish. It’s all right in the long pull, but I did n’t feel that Patten’s new venture was good right now. I could beat him to it and wire or telephone my option on that land. I could grab it from under his nose, but I was really hesitant about the wisdom of such a move. Myra wanted me to close the deal and wire in my acceptance of the option from Las Vegas, Nevada. I would n’t do it. Let Patten have it, I argued. We talked it over until we hit the state fine. Myra was very persistent and told me I was a fool if I did n’t beat him to it. Baker was the next town. She tried to make me promise to stop at Baker and wire to Los Angeles from there. And when I would n’t agree to that, she got into one of her temperamental moods and would n’t say a word.

It made me sore. I might as well have been driving alone. We hit the head of the long drop into Baker. An old desert rat was trudging along the highway, and, acting on an impulse, I stopped and picked him up. I knew Myra would n’t like it, and maybe that’s why I did it. I really didn’t want to pick up the old devil, but I just did it without thinking. Some people call that a hunch.

‘Thank y’, sir,’ he said, as I let him in the rear seat.

I nodded and we drove on. Myra did n’t say a word, and I did n’t care.

‘Going into Baker?’ I asked him.

He sputtered and said he was. But he added that he wanted to go on to Yermo. That was more than fifty miles beyond Baker, but, as I was headed that way over U. S. 91, I told him I’d take him there. Myra never even looked around at him. We went on for a little while and nobody spoke.

‘Goin’ into Los Angeles?’ the oldtimer asked me.

‘Yes,’ I said curtly, and made no further attempt to strike up a conversation. I was really sorry I had stopped to pick him up. These seedy prospectors are usually taciturn old devils, but this one seemed to have something on his mind. Pretty soon he broke the ice again.

‘When I get to Yermo,’ he said, ‘I can get my old friend Joel Curtis to grubstake me.’

Nobody commented on that remark, so the old boy began to talk some more. I was preoccupied. I was wondering if Jack Patten had a moneymaking scheme after all. I was wondering if Myra was right, and if I was stubborn and foolish in not beating Jack Patten to it. I was wondering if I should stop at Baker and close that deal ahead of Patten. At first I did n’t listen to the old boy in ’the back seat. But presently I became aware that he was speaking of prospecting. Naturally, that was all he knew.

My mind went back to that realestate deal. Jack Patten would close it to-morrow. If I wanted it, I still had time to wire or telephone into Los Angeles. I could close the deal from Baker. We were only ten or twelve miles from the town. That gave me about fifteen minutes to make up my mind. Myra was angry. She was disgusted because I hesitated. Well, let her be. After all, I ought to know my own mind.

Meanwhile the old duck in the back seat was rambling on about prospecting and amethyst mines and what not. I forgot about real estate, and Myra, and Jack Patten, and listened to the oldtimer tell about how he had discovered a natural supply of amethyst, and how it would make him rich at last. His homely story was very unromantic and matter-of-fact. But it seemed that he needed money to get the project under way. You never can tell about these old boys. They often hit something good when you least expect it. If he had a real amethyst mine, I was interested.

‘Where is this amethyst mine of yours?’ I asked.

But he was a shrewd customer. I could n’t see his eyes, as he was in the rear seat, but I’ll wager there was a twinkle in them. He said something about not being able to tell me the exact location, but he mentioned the Shadow Mountains and Mesquite Dry Lake. Then he produced some pieces of amethyst that he said he had taken from the ‘ lode,’ as he called it. I examined the pieces, though I really did n’t know much about them. They looked very pretty when the sun hit them. Myra was still sitting in grim silence. I despised that pouting, so I handed her some of the pieces of amethyst. She was really interested in them.

‘They’re beautiful, are n’t they,’ she remarked, and handed them back to the prospector.

‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I could show you a lode of amethyst as big as this-here automobile.’

That was probably a damned lie, but I could n’t resist an exclamation. You never can tell about these old desert rats. He might be telling the truth, and if so, there was money in his discovery. I took another look at the amethyst and made a pretense of knowing something about it. I inquired if he was certain of the quality, and if the samples should n’t be subjected to an assay. But he was so sure of his find that he rather scoffed at the idea of any kind of test. He declared he knew.

I was really quite interested in this story. If it was half of what the old boy claimed, there was money in it. I tried to get him to talk some more, and I asked him how he made the discovery. He went into a disjointed story about a mule that wandered away, and in trailing it up a canyon he found this amethyst. Immediately he dropped everything and set out for Yermo, where he had a friend who would grubstake him. He said we were the first people he had spoken to about his luck.

‘I’m gonna call that mine “The Lost Mule,"' he said. ‘Kind of fits it.

I did n’t care a whoop what he called it as long as he really had something. I pretended skepticism and belittled amethyst as a valuable stone. But the old man seemed to have a decent knowledge of the stuff. He explained why amethyst was superior to ordinary quartz, and insisted that his was as fine as any he had ever seen. There’s a great lure to any kind of a mining game, and I really had hopes that I might have been lucky in meeting this oldtimer just when I did. It seemed fatalistic, especially as I had stopped and picked him up on sheer impulse.

I don’t know how it impressed Myra, but I saw that she was still thinking of making money in real estate. As we approached the little desert town of Baker, she asked me very pointedly if I intended to telephone to Los Angeles. It was an ultimatum. She meant, ‘This is the last time I’m going to speak about it.’ But I was adamant. I was n’t going to be pushed into that real-estate deal when I did n’t want it.

‘No,’ I said very positively. ‘I’ve changed my mind. That deal can wait a few days.’

Myra did n’t say anything. If she wanted to be stubborn, I could be just as stubborn. Moreover, this amethyst story was beginning to interest me. If this old boy was on the level, and I had no reason to suspect otherwise, I intended to have a finger or two in that amethyst mine. So I returned to that topic and inquired more about the mining and marketing of it. The prospector liked to talk about that, and he went on at a great rate as we passed through Baker without stopping. I tried to get some line-up on the legal side of it, and find out just what was the best means of organizing the proposition as a business unit. The old-timer was n’t any too sure of his ground when it came to business, and it was obvious that I could handle him easily as long as I gave him rope enough. I had visions of cleaning up in amethyst.

It began to get dark as we talked. The sun went down and I was glad of that. Driving into a setting sun is hard on the eyes. The desert looked rather pretty. The sky was red and the whole business looked like a painting. If an artist could really get those colors on a canvas he could make a lot of money. I could n’t help thinking that it was much wiser to make money by taking amethyst out of the desert than by trying to paint a picture of it. That confounded amethyst mine was running through my head. I began to wonder if I had n’t stumbled onto something really big — some quick cash. I knew I could never rest until I had convinced myself one way or the other about the old boy’s story.

It got dark and I switched on the headlights. Every time something glittered in the road I thought of amethyst. I asked the prospector for an address. It seemed that he had none. But his name was Thompson, and he could be reached through his friend Joel Curtis in Yermo. I gave him my card and told him that he would hear from me. He gave me a piece of his amethyst and I planned to have it properly valued in Los Angeles. If it is half of what he claims, I’ll take my lawyer out to Yermo and we’ll sew that old bird up so tight that he and his mine will never get away from us. No matter what I said, he was positive of one thing — the high quality of that amethyst. He ought to know. It all sounded like a mighty good break to me.

When we pulled up in Yermo for the state agricultural officers to inspect the car for fruit, he climbed out and went on to look for his friend Joel Curtis.

III

There are some things about Ralph that are absolutely maddening. I can’t stand indecision and over-caution. I knew, and Ralph knew too, that Jack Patten was going to clean up by purchasing the old Dominguez Rancho and subdividing it into city lots. We had talked it all over, and we agreed that it had everything to make it a good proposition. It was close to Los Angeles, the city had to spread in that direction, it could be bought for a song, and Ralph had enough money to swing the deal by himself.

We knew Jack Patten had an eye on it, and we knew we could beat him to it, and freeze him out. And still Ralph hesitated. He had n’t made a cent in the last year, and now that things were beginning to pick up it was time to get in while real estate was still cheap.

But he was afraid to plunge, and he kept thinking up excuses. He has no gambler’s instinct and no aggressiveness. Sometimes I get so disgusted I wonder what I ever saw in him. Jack Patten is an opportunist, and he wins big or he loses big. He’s not afraid to take a big risk if the chance for a profit is big too. That’s the kind of a man I admire. I could be happy with a man like that. And instead I live with this careful piker who ought to be a grocery clerk. I have done my best to goad Ralph into action, but he always has that superior, condescending attitude. And what does it ever get him? Nothing. The more I thought of his dull business sense, the more disgusted I became. By the time we reached the California line I gave up, and we drove on in silence.

Just as we reached the top of the long, straight grade that goes downhill all the way to Baker, Ralph began to slow down. He stopped the car, and I saw that he meant to pick up a vagabond who was walking on the highway. That was his childish way of getting even with me. He was angry because I told him what I thought he ought to do. He knew I detested hitch-hikers, and yet he deliberately stopped for this man — something he hardly ever does unless he is driving alone. I ignored the whole thing. I did n’t even look around to see what kind of a person we were picking up. But I could tell by his voice when he said, ‘Thank y’, sir,’ that he was an elderly man.

‘Going into Baker?’ asked Ralph.

The man said yes, and added something about Yermo, and of course Ralph agreed to take him all the way to Yermo. Ralph did it just to irritate me, and I was furious, but I did n’t say a word.

‘Goin’ into Los Angeles?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Ralph replied, and that ended the conversation. I thought of Baker. We could n’t be more than fifteen or sixteen miles from the town. And it was about four o’clock in the afternoon. If Ralph would only wire or telephone into Los Angeles, he could close that deal for the Dominguez Rancho at once. But if he went through Baker it would be night before we got to Yermo, and thus too late to wire from there. And I knew that Jack Patten would close the deal himself the very next day. He told me that a week previously. Ralph did n’t know that my information came from Jack Patten himself. And I would n’t tell him, for among other things the fool is jealous. And he should be, for I have reason enough to know that Jack Patten is interested in me. Suddenly, for no reason at all, the old man in the back seat spoke.

‘When I get to Yermo,’ he said, ‘I can get my old friend Joel Curtis to grubstake me.’

I did n’t want to talk to him, so I said nothing. Ralph did n’t answer, and I knew he was wishing that he had n’t picked the old fellow up. Then the old man began to talk. He said that he was a prospector, and that he knew the desert; and he rambled on about mines and amethysts, and I tried not to listen to him.

My mind went back to Jack Patten. The last time I spoke to him he had made a few cryptic remarks. I think he knew that I was n’t legally tied to Ralph. He’s no fool, and the more I thought about it, the more I could recall a double meaning — a kind of hidden suggestion in his words. The more I pondered over it, the plainer it became. Yes, I was sure that Jack Patten meant some things that he did n’t quite say. I knew he had been divorced some years ago, and as I thought about Jack Patten I realized what I could do if I wanted to. After all, what was there to bind me to Ralph? Nothing. He could n’t be compared to Jack in any way. There was nothing to stop me if I wanted to leave him. I looked at him, driving steadily on and listening to the old man’s talk about amethysts.

The old duffer said he had found an amethyst mine. He talked about how much money it would bring, and how it needed to be promoted. He seemed to be very sure that he had struck it rich, and I could tell by Ralph’s expression that the old man’s story impressed him. He rambled on about prospecting and making money in amethyst, and how he was going to cash in on his discovery.

‘Where is this amethyst mine of yours?’ Ralph asked him.

The old fellow hedged, and mentioned something about mountains and a dry lake. It was obvious he was n’t going to give away the location.

But he was in dead earnest about his mine, and brought out some samples of amethyst that he had discovered. Ralph looked at them, and I knew perfectly well he did n’t know anything about them. Then he handed them to me. The color was very beautiful — a kind of light violet tint in some and a rich violet in others. All the pieces seemed very clear and free of flaws.

‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they,’ I said, and handed them back to the old man. He was proud of them. And, like most of those old liars, he proceeded to enlarge upon the story.

‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I could show you a lode of amethyst as big as this-here automobile.’

I said nothing, but Ralph let out a whistle of surprise and took another look at one of the pieces. They went on talking about amethyst and its value and how the old man happened to find it. I knew Ralph was interested in the old man’s story, and I wondered what Jack Patten would do if he had stumbled onto the same thing. If the old man really had a valuable amethyst mine, Jack Patten was just the kind of a man who could develop the business end of it. Several ideas began to occur to me. If that amethyst was really a good thing, there were several things that might be done. I could forget it; I could let Ralph handle it; I could speak to Jack Patten. It was this last that interested me. There was no telling what that might lead to.

‘I’m gonna call that mine “The Lost Mule,”’ said the old man. ‘Kind of fits it.’

It seems that he had found the amethyst when he was looking for a mule that had strayed from his camp. He went on discussing the characteristics of amethyst, and Ralph put in a few meaningless questions. The prospector seemed to know what he was talking about, and I could see that Ralph was becoming more and more excited about the possibility of making some quick money. This story of a rich mine in the desert had put real estate out of his head. We were very close to Baker, and it was now or never on the real-estate deal. Although I knew what his answer would be, I asked Ralph if he was going to telephone to Los Angeles from Baker.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve changed my mind. That deal can wait a few days.’

I could have guessed the answer almost to the word. He would n’t think of doing two things at once. It never occurred to him that here were two opportunities, and he was going to sit back and let them both slip through his fingers. That moment decided something I knew had been inevitable for a long time. Ralph and I were through. It was all over that minute, and I began making plans for the future as we drove through Baker without stopping.

Ralph and the old prospector went on talking. Let them waste words. They did n’t count. It would be Jack Patten and I who would own that amethyst mine. The idea pleased me, and I wondered what Ralph would think if he could read my mind.

The sun began to go down and the desert began to cool off. The western sky became gloriously red. It changed from scarlet to crimson and finally to mauve. I had a suit of that color once, trimmed with silver fox. When we get control of that amethyst mine, I’ll have a dozen of them if I wish. In spite of my better judgment I allowed my imagination to play with the innumerable things I could do with money. It was pleasant to speed along in the spreading night and think of what was to come.

I heard Ralph ask the old man for his address. He mentioned Joel Curtis at Yermo, and I made a careful mental note of the name. I decided not to say a word to the old man, — his name was Thompson, — but I was sure that Jack Patten and I would appear in Yermo before another forty-eight hours had gone by. Ralph spoke to the old man about bringing a lawyer out to Yermo and arranging a business deal if the amethyst was really good. I wanted to tell him that he was wasting his breath, but I merely smiled to myself. There will be a deal, but Ralph won’t be in it.

They went on with their plans, and I went on with my own, and presently the lights of Yermo appeared before us. When we stopped for the state fruit inspection, the old prospector left us and went his way to look for Joel Curtis,

IV

Down the one and only main street of Yermo walked Old Man Thompson. He passed the Oasis Café and Kaly’s barber shop. Two or three local wags, who stood in the lighted doorways and looked out into the night, saw him go by. Old Man Thompson nodded to them and went on down the street to Bud Schaeffer’s pool room. Here he had a good chance of finding Joel Curtis.

The local wags looked at each ot her and grinned. They told each other that the old nut was back in town. Old Man Thompson is in town again. He’ll have some loco story about a new mine. He always thinks he’s found a strike at last. Funny sometimes to see him get hold of a stranger and fill him full of a crazy tale about a new gold strike. Harmless old nut. What was it he thought he had last time? Turquoise? Carnelian? They chuckled and spit in the street. Well, this time it will probably be amethyst.