and the two riders. What Quong, carrying his bar as the rest, might be considering, could not be judged. Sheridan's brain was charged with broken pictures of canals, a power-house, spreading patches of alfalfa, herds of fine cattle. And, ever in the background, though constantly dismissed, the vision of Mary Burrows.
The men grunted and straightened up after every trip. The labor was leavened by the knowledge that they carried a small fortune with each bar. Sheridan roughly estimated them as being worth between seven and eight thousand dollars apiece. After the third trip he went to the entrance of the White Chapel, through the little passageway, to where he could look out and across to the head of Bonanza Canyon. The sun was well down, flushing the rainbow-painted canyon with a last flood of color, the air was already growing cooler, deep shadows were gathering. He called over to the cowboy watcher who started towards him across the main canyon.
"Got half of what we went after, Bill," said Sheridan. "You'll be in on the rest of the job. Anything stirring?"
"Quiet as an empty cowbarn. Fire's goin' an' the water's bilin'. Quong goin' to cook them steaks we brought along?"
"No hurry about them for a bit, Bill. We're not quite through. I'll give you a call later." Sheridan was doubtful whether Quong, in his restoration to wealth, would care to resume his job as chef. He rather fancied he would, until they returned to the
