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“I’ve been so unhappy,” she told him. “You’ve never been out of my thoughts, Billy.”

“Ain’t you got nothing better to think about than me?” he asked, with a smile. “Well, the psalm-shouter let me out–jerked the piller-slip from under me, you might say–and turned me adrift. He’s got a high-chested, low-browed Swede in my place. It takes a guy with hair down to his eyebrows to be a buck chamber-maid.”

“The old rascal!” Ponatah’s face darkened with anger. “No wonder those men robbed him. I wish they had taken all his gold, and escaped.”

“You’re pretty sore on his heavenly nibs, ain’t you?” Ponatah clenched her hands and her eyes blazed. “Well, you got this consolation, the Aurora ain’t as rich as it was.”

“It would have been rich enough for us.”

“Us?”

“Yes. You’d marry me if I were rich, wouldn’t you?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Bill declared, firmly. “What’s the use to kid you?”

“Why wouldn’t you? Are you ashamed of me?”

Bill protested, “Say, what is this you’re giving me, the third degree?”

“If I were as rich as–well, as Reindeer Mary, wouldn’t you marry me?” Ponatah gazed at the unworthy object of her affections with a yearning that was embarrassing, and Laughing Bill was forced to spar for wind.

“Ain’t you the bold Mary Ann–makin’ cracks like that?” he chided. “I’m ashamed of you, honest. I’ve passed up plenty of frills in my time, and we’re all better off for it. My appetite for marriage ain’t no keener than it used to be, so you forget it. Little Doc, he’s the marrying kind.”

“Oh yes. He tells me a great deal about his Alice. He’s very much discouraged. If–if I had the Aurora I wouldn’t forget him; I’d give him half.”

“Would you, now? Well, he’s the one stiffneck that wouldn’t take it. He’s funny that way–seems to think money ‘ll bite him, or something. I don’t know how these pullanthrofists get along, with proud people always spurning their gifts. He’s got my nan. You take my tip, Kid, and cling to your coin. Salt it down for winter. That’s what I’m doing with mine.”

“Are you?” Ponatah was not amused, she was gravely interested. “I thought you were broke, Billy.”

“Where’d you get that at?” he demanded. “I’ve always got a pinch of change, I have. I’m lucky that way. Now then, you run along and don’t never try to feint me into a clinch. It don’t go.”

Laughing Bill enjoyed a good rest in the days that followed. He rested hard for several weeks, and when he rested he lifted his hand to absolutely nothing. He was an expert idler, and with him indolence was but a form of suspended animation. In spite of himself, however, he was troubled by a problem; he was completely baffled by it, in fact, until, without warning and without conscious effort, the solution presented itself. Bill startled his cabin mate one day by the announcement that he intended to go prospecting.

“Nonsense!” said Thomas, when the first shock of surprise had passed. “This country has been run over, and every inch is staked.”

“I bet I’ll horn in somewhere. All I want is one claim where I got room to sling myself.”

“If that’s all you want I’ll give you a claim. It has twenty acres. Is that room enough?”

“Plenty. Where is it?”

“It’s on Eclipse Creek, I believe. A patient gave it to me for a bill.”

“He won’t call for a new deal if I strike it rich?”

“No. I paid his fare out of the country. But why waste your valuable time? Your time is valuable, I presume?”

“Sure! I ain’t got much left. You don’t believe in hunches, do you? Well, I do. I’ve seen ’em come out. Look at Denny Slevin, for instance! I heard him say he had a hunch something unpleasant was going to happen to him, and it did. We’ll go fifty-fifty on this Eclipse Creek.”

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself. Fresh air won’t hurt you.”