you can drive the devil out of 'em. They's just one ranch along their western line an' you can bet yore last dollar the rancher ain't got his wife living there within reach of them yeller-bellied devils. You can't ever tell when they'll break out. A bunch of 'em gave me the hint to vamose from Tonto Fork and I just naturally vamosed."
There was more of this sort of talk, not reassuring, save as it showed that conditions had not changed so greatly since Lyman's day. And there was always the vaguely troubling thought that later comers might have uncovered the treasure-trove.
At Miami they gathered together their simple outfit and prepared to take the field equipped only by their own experience. The evening before they proposed to start they were seated in the office of the little hotel, chatting with their landlord, when the latter pointed at a figure coming up the street, driving before him a limping burro with one ear flopping,
"Thar's Di'mond Dick," said the landlord. "Comin' back broke from di'mond huntin'. Thar's yore man for a guide. Knows all the Tonto Basin like a book. He's cracked on one subject—di'monds. Outside of that he's all right. An' he gits by with the Injuns—bein' cracked, they think he's holy, or something. If you can git him, half yore trouble's over. I'll hail him."
The man came in willingly enough, leaving the patient drop-eared burro, laden with his scanty outfit, outside, waiting like a faithful dog. The prospector's swart skin was dark as an Indian's. The
