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Nate Bernritter, or "Bern," as he was usually called when not referred to as "the old man," was in an unpleasant frame of mind. He was superintendent in charge of the mining, milling and cyaniding at the Three-ply Gold-mine, but the cares of his official position could not wholly have accounted for the perplexed frown on his brow, the hunted look in his eyes, or the fierce, spasmodic clenching and unclenching of his big, brown hands. Pacing the narrow confines of his office and chewing savagely on an unlighted cigar, he muttered to himself, over and over again, his voice a husky and hopeless whisper: "We're at the end of our rope; McGowan has taken the one step that will put the kibosh on us. Had we better duck out of here between two days and get across the Mexican border, or stay and try and brazen the matter out?" He stopped before a window. Leaning against the wall, he looked out dejectedly. The "plant" of the Three-ply lay below him, in the bottom of the scarred and blistered valley. Off to the right was the bunk-house and chuck-shanty. Several rods below the bunk-house was the ten-stamp mill, throbbing with the roar of the great stamps pounding out the gold. To the left of the mill were rows of big wooden tanks, where the mill "tailings" were treated with cyanid of potassium; and to the left of the tanks again, was the little adobe laboratory where the man--Jacobs by name--who had charge of the cyaniding, made his tests and did the assaying, refined mill, and cyanid bullion, and ran it into molds.