Yet he clung grimly to the mystery as the truck clattered on, mile after mile, while the broad road led along the sides of the hills, finally to dip downward and run beside the bubbling Clear Creek,--clear no longer in the memory of the oldest inhabitant; but soiled by the silica from ore deposits that, churned and rechurned, gave to the stream a whitish, almost milk-like character, as it twisted in and out of the tortuous canon on its turbulent journey to the sea.

But Fairchild failed to notice either that or the fact that ancient, age-whitened water wheels had begun to appear here and there, where gulch miners, seekers after gold in the silt of the creek's bed, had abandoned them years before; that now and then upon the hills showed the gaunt scars of mine openings,--reminders of dreams of a day long past; or even the more important fact that in the distance, softened by the mellowing rays of a dying sun, a small town gradually was coming into view.

A mile more, then the truck stopped with a jerk.
"Where you bound for, pardner ?" Fairchild turned absently, then grinned in embarrassment.
"Ohadi." "That's it, straight ahead.

I turn off here.

Stranger ?" "Yep." "Miner ?" Fairchild shrugged his shoulders and nodded noncommittally.