Sam’s claim was not a gold strike or a bonanza. It was a pocket, very definite, and certainly limited in the amount of gravel and black sand which carried much fine and some coarse gold. Sam knew its extent and its possibilities. He had kept its location a careful secret. It was not legally staked, for in staking it he would have brought a swarm of gold seekers to the ridge, and he wanted this country to himself. He would take out enough to buy the black mare plus enough to buy supplies for the winter. When he finished there would still be gold left, a sort of bank account to be hoarded against the coming seasons.  
For three weeks Sam shoveled and panned. At last he had enough yellow dust in his buck-hide pouch. He carefully buried his shovel, pick, and pan under a pile of rocks, covered his workings, and faced down the ridge.
 
As he trudged slowly through the fields of columbine and mountain lupine, he smiled softly to himself. The major would be completely flabbergasted. Sam laughed aloud, startling a cocky jay. The gaily dressed fellow fluffed his feathers and his purple crest bristled. He burst into a volley of angry chattering as he hopped about in a young balsam tree.
 
“Got a right to ha-ha,” Sam said aloud. “The ol’ glory21 hole come through with five hunnert an’ some extra fer grub. Left me a bit fer seed, too.” He continued to chuckle as he tramped along.
 
He trudged on until he could see his mesa through the red trunks of the spruce. Breaking out at the edge of the meadow he halted and stood looking over the familiar scene. Every detail was so familiar to him that he seemed to be entering a room where he had lived a long time. The old yellowbelly whistler sounded a blasting warning and plunged from his high perch. Ground squirrels romped to their dens. On the semibarren little hill the dogs began scolding, “squit-tuck! squit-tuck!” Sam grinned.
 
“Yuh ol’ fool, don’t yuh go makin’ me out no enemy,” he said aloud.
 
His eyes moved eagerly up and down the meadow, then he whistled a few high notes. There was no answering pound of hoofs. The black mare must be at the far end of the mesa.
 
“Must be off cattin’ around,” he mumbled as he shuffled to his cabin door.
 
Before Sam entered the cabin the old whistler discovered his mistake. He sounded an all-clear whistle and the meadow came to life. Sam dropped down on his old chair to watch the busy scene. After a time he got to his feet and pulled the latch thong. The door swung inward protestingly. Everything was as he had left it, except that a wandering cowboy had stopped and made himself a pot of tea and fried a snack of bacon. Sam knew, because the skillet was carefully washed and polished and the cracked teapot was washed and turned upside down on the table.
 
Sam shuffled about the cabin peering at the familiar things within its walls. He finally built a fire. He was hungry for oven biscuits and stove-cooked coffee.
 
22
 
He was poking the pine-knot fire to high heat when a voice from the open door made him turn. His faded eyes lighted up eagerly as he saw Major Howard standing there. The major had a grim set to his eyes and his mustache bristled angrily.
 
“Come on out, Sam,” he said gruffly.
 
“Howdy, major,” Sam said. He began to chuckle. Might as well spring the big surprise right away. Then he saw that there were two men with the major, men wearing nickel-plated stars on the flaps of their wool shirts. He blinked his eyes.
 
“Howdy, sheriff,” he said. He barely knew Sheriff Miller, had met him only a couple of times.
 
“Now, Sam,” the major broke in harshly, “come clean. What did you do with that Lady Ebony horse?”
 
“Me?” Sam stared at the major.
 
“Yes!” the major snapped. “You took an awful fancy to that filly, wanted to buy her. You’ve been away a long spell. I brought the sheriff up here, so you better talk and talk fast.” The major’s face was beginning to redden as his anger rose.
 
Sam looked from one man to the other, slowly, his gaze searching their faces. Yes, they were in earnest. A horse thief? Bony fingers pulled at his straggling beard. This wasn’t the way men did, it wasn’t square shooting. He did not pause to consider that Major Howard was not a born western mountainman. He stared defiantly.
 
“So yuh came up here to make me out a hoss thief?”
 
The sheriff stepped forward and spoke gruffly to the major. “I’m not here, Howard, to help you badger this old coot. You swore out a warrant for his arrest. I’m here to serve it.” He turned to Sam. “Get whatever you want to take along. This warrant calls for your arrest—charge is stealing one black mare.”
 
Sam blinked and his eyes shifted to the sheriff’s face.23 In all his life the law had never laid a hand on him. He had had some experiences of his own with horse thieves. When he caught a man with the goods he handled the affair himself. And claim jumpers were met and dealt with according to a man’s rights. He rubbed his bony fingers together. He could explain, he could even take the sheriff to his hidden claim, he could produce the pouch of dust. But it wasn’t the right of any man to ask where he had been or what he had been doing. Besides, the claim wasn’t staked and if fools who didn’t know pockets and glory holes saw that ground there’d be a rush and the whole ridge would be turned upside down. His eyes glinted brightly as he turned toward his door.
 
He backed past the table and one hand lifted to the belt hanging from its willow peg. His gnarled fingers closed around the familiar butt of his forty-five Colt. The gun slid down and snuggled against his hip. Then he shuffled toward the door.
 
“Get! Get—afore I blast yuh!” he whispered hoarsely as he stepped into the sunshine.
 
The deputy saw the gun first. He came to life with a jerk and his hand shot down to his own gun. Sam shot from the hip. His aim wasn’t steady; the black muzzle wavered a little because Sam’s old eyes couldn’t see clearly. Black-powder smoke billowed in a blue-white cloud, filling the doorway. Through the smoke Sam saw the deputy double over, then pitch forward. He was swinging his gun around to bring it down on the major when the sheriff’s boot shot upward and sent it spinning from his hand. The officer’s voice out through the smoke.
 
“Now you got something to answer for, you old coot!”
 
He stepped forward and a heavy hand dropped upon Sam’s shoulder. He was jerked forward and in less than a minute his wrists were handcuffed together. He stood silently watching the sheriff and the major plug the24 deputy’s wound. The man was weak and sick, but he was alive.
 
The major straightened and glared at Sam. He had never intended to have the old fellow jailed, he merely wanted to scare him into revealing what he had done with the black mare. Sam’s reaction irritated and puzzled him. Now the old fool could take whatever the law handed him; the major made up his mind to that.
 
Sheriff Miller had a different slant on the affair. He was a mountainman himself. All his life he had dealt with cowhands and miners. He recognized that Sam was acting as most of them would act under the same conditions. He blamed himself because he had thought Sam too old to have any fire left.
 
“I’m not too proud of this job,” he said sourly to the major.
 
“You’d better do your duty,” the major snapped.
 
The sheriff nodded his head. He turned to Sam.
 
“Now get what you want. We’re going. I’ll go into the cabin with you just to make sure you don’t try anything else.”
 
“I don’t reckon I need anything,” Sam answered.