“Alone. That is my way. An’ I understand how you feel—what you need. Are you goin’ to hunt gold?”
“No—no.”
“Have you any money?”
“Yes. More than I’ll ever need. I’d like to throw it all away—or give it to you. But it—it was my mother’s.... And I promised her I’d not squander it—that I’d try to save.”
“Boy, never mind—an’ I don’t want your money,” interrupted Dismukes. “An’ don’t do any fool trick with it. You’ll need it to buy outfits. You can always trust Indians to go to the freightin’ posts for you. But never let any white men in this desert know you got money. That’s a hard comparison, an’ it’s justified.”
“I’m already sick with the love men have for money,” said Adam, bitterly.
“An’ now to figure out an’ make good all that brag of mine,” went on Dismukes, reflectively. “I’ll nee
