"Of us there are four."
The stranger looked around.
"In camp,--a league beyond," explained the Mexican.
"Of this--much." Concho took from his saddle bags a lump of greyish iron ore, studded here and there with star points of pyrites. The stranger said nothing, but his eye looked a diabolical suggestion.
"You are lucky, friend Greaser."
"It IS silver."
"How know you this?"
"It is my business. I'm a metallurgist."
"And you can say what shall be silver and what is not."
"Yes,--see here!" The stranger took from his saddle bags a little leather case containing some half dozen phials. One, enwrapped in dark-blue paper, he held up to Concho.
"This contains a preparation of silver."
Concho's eyes sparkled, but he looked doubtingly at the stranger.
"Get me some water in your pan."
Concho emptied his water bottle in his prospecting pan and handed it to the stranger. He dipped a d