The sun was in the west when they began to climb a ridge. A
short ascent, and a long turn to the right brought them under a
bold spur of the mountain which shut out the northwest. Camp had
been pitched in a grove of trees of a species new to Hare. From
under a bowlder gushed the sparkling spring, a grateful sight and
sound to desert travellers. In a niche of the rock hung a silver
cup.
"Jack, no man knows how old this cup is, or anything about it.
We named the spring after it—Silver Cup. The strange thing is that
the cup has never been lost nor stolen. But—could any desert man,
or outlaw, or Indian, take it away, after drinking here?"
The cup was nicked and battered, bright on the sides, moss-green
on the bottom. When Hare drank from it he understood.
That evening there was ru
