Some prospector not so lucky as he, thought Casey, with swift, soon forgotten sympathy.

A coyote ran up a slope toward him, halted with forefeet planted on a rock, and stared at him, ears perked like an inquisitive dog.

Casey stopped, eased his rifle out of the crease in the back of the seat cushion, chanced a shot,--and his luck held.

He climbed out, picked up the limp gray animal, threw it into the tonneau and went on.

Even with twenty-five thousand dollars in his pocket, Casey told himself that coyote hides are not to be scorned.