shells. Between the cracks of the sidewalks, thronged once on a Saturday night, grew patches of pale green basket grass. Of the “business blocks” but two remained, and one of these was listing with the wind.
“Cheery sight,” remarked Eden.
“The building that’s on the verge of toppling is the old Silver Star Saloon,” said Holley. “The other one—it never will topple. They built it of stone—built it to stand—and they needed it, too, I guess. That’s the old jail.”
“The jail,” Eden repeated.
Holley’s voice grew cautious. “Is that a light in the Silver Star?”
“Seems to be,” Eden answered. “Look here—we’re at rather a disadvantage—unarmed, you know. I’ll just stow away in the tonneau, and appear when needed. The element of surprise may make up for our lack of a weapon.”
“Good idea,” agreed Holley, and Eden climbed into the rear of the car and hid himself. They stopped before the Silver Star. A tall man appeared suddenly in the doorway, and walked briskly up to the flivver.
“Well, what do you want?” he asked, and Bob Eden thrilled to hear again the thin high voice of Shaky Phil Maydorf.
“Hello, stranger,” said Holley. “This is a surprise. I thought old Petticoat was deserted.”
“Company’s thinking of opening up the mine soon,” returned Maydorf. “I’m here to do a little assaying”
“Find anything?” inquired Holley casually.
“The silver’s pretty well worked out. But there’s copper in those hills to the left. You’re a long way off the main road.”
