He had been as lucky in his mines as in his gambling, sinking shafts and tunnelling in violation of expert theory and finding "pay" in every case.

Without knowing it, he allowed himself to work his ranch much as if he was still working his mine.

The old-time spirit of '49, hap-hazard, unscientific, persisted in his mind.
Everything was a gamble--who took the greatest chances was most apt to be the greatest winner.

The idea of manuring Los Muertos, of husbanding his great resources, he would have scouted as niggardly, Hebraic, ungenerous.
Magnus climbed into the buggy, helping himself with Harran's outstretched hand which he still held.

The two were immensely fond of each other, proud of each other.