He moved farther upstream--this time with one of his regular pans. He became absorbed in his experiment. He washed panful after panful, slowly, carefully, collectedly. Suddenly he stood up, swore softly, and flung the half-washed dirt of the last pan on the rocks. "I'm a nut!"

he exclaimed. "This livin' in civilization has been puttin' my intellec'

to the bad. Too much Eastern sa.s.siety." And with this inexplicable self-arraignment he stooped at the tent-door, buckled on his gun, and started upstream. He glanced from side to side of the steep and narrowing walls as he advanced slowly. He pa.s.sed places where the stream disappeared in the sand to find some subterranean channel and reappear below again. Rounding an angle of the cliff, he dropped to his knees and examined some tiny parallel scratches on a rounded rock--the marks made by a boot-heel that had slipped. For an hour he toiled over the rocks on up the diminishing stream. "Gettin' thin," he muttered, gazing at the silver thread of water rippling over the pebbles. A few feet ahead the cliffs met at the bottom in a sharp-edged "V," not over a foot apart in the stream-bed, but widening above. Overland scrambled through. On the other side of the opening he straightened up, breathing hard. His hand crept to his hip. On a sandy level a few yards ahead of him stood a ragged and faded canvas tent, its flap wavering idly in a breath of wind. In front of the tent was the rain-washed charcoal of an old fire.

A rusted pan, a pick, and the worn stub of a shovel lay near the stream.

A box marked "Dynamite" was half-filled with odds and ends of empty tins, cooking-utensils, and among the things was a gla.s.s fruit-jar half filled with matches.

Slowly Overland's hand dropped to his side. He stepped forward, stooped, and peered into the tent. "Thought so," he said laughing queerly. Save for a pair of old quilts and an old corduroy coat, the place was empty.

"Fool's luck," muttered Overland. "Wonder the Gophertown outfit didn't find him and fix him. But come to think of it, they ain't so anxious to cross over to this side of the range and get too clost to a real town, and get run in or shot up. Fool's luck," he reiterated, coolly rolling a cigarette and gazing about with a critical eye. "They's another trail into this canon that the prospector knowed. I got to find it. Billy'll be some interested."

CHAPTER XIII

THE RETURN

Overland Red lay concealed in an arroyo at the foot of the range. He could overlook the desert without being seen. It was the afternoon of the day following Winthrop's departure.

Since discovering the dead prospector's camp and all that it meant, the tramp was doubly vigilant. He tried to believe that his anxiety was for his own safety rather than for Winthrop's. He finally gave up that idea, grumbling something about becoming "plumb soft in his feelin's since he took to a.s.sociatin' with sa.s.siety folks." However, had Winthrop been of the West and seasoned in its more rugged ways, Overland would have thought little of the young man's share in recent events. While he knew that Winthrop looked upon their venture as nothing more than a rather keenly exciting game, Overland realized also that the Easterner had played the game royally. Perhaps the fact that Winthrop's health was not of the best appealed to some hidden sentiment in the tramp's peculiar nature. In any event, Overland Red found himself strangely solicitous for his companion's return.

Far in the south a speck moved, almost imperceptibly. The tramp's keen eyes told him that this was no horseman. He rolled a cigarette and lay back in the shade of a boulder. "He's a couple of points off his course, but he can't miss the range," he reflected.

Desiring to a.s.sure himself that no horseman followed Winthrop, Overland Red made no sign that might help the other to find the trail over the range. The rim of Winthrop's hat became distinguishable; then the white lacing of his boots. Nearer, Overland saw that his face was drawn and set with lines of fatigue.

No riders appeared on the horizon. Overland stepped out from behind the rock. "Well, how did you make it?" he called.

Winthrop came forward wearily "No luck at all."

"Couldn't find it, eh?"

"I counted every tie between the tank and that little ditch under the track. The entire stretch has been relaid with new ties."

Overland whistled. Then he grinned. "You had a good healthy walk, anyhow," he observed.

"It doesn't seem to worry you much," said Winthrop.

"Nope. Now you're back, it don't. I reckon you done your dam'dest as the song says. Angels can do no less. Buck up, Billy! You 're limper'n a second-hand porous-plaster. Here, take a shot at this. That will stiffen your knees some. Did you meet up with anybody?"

"Not a soul. I thought I should freeze last night, though. I didn't imagine the desert could get so cold."

"Livin' out here on the old dry spot will either kill you or cure you.

That's one reason I let you go look for them things. The harder you hit the trail, and can stand it, the quicker you'll get built up." Then Overland, realizing that his companion was worse than tired, that he was dispirited, became as wily as the proverbial serpent. His method, however, could hardly be compared with the dove's conciliatory cooing.

"You sure are a b.u.m scout," he began.

Winthrop flushed, but was silent.

"Bet a banana you didn't even leave the track and look for it."

"No, I didn't. Where could I have begun?"

Overland ignored the question. "I'm hungrier than a gorilla. Just send a wireless to them feet of your'n. We got some climbin' to do afore dark."

"I'd just as soon camp here. Go up to-morrow," said Winthrop.

"So'd I if it wasn't for bein' scared some of the hills would mosey off before I got back." And Overland set a brisk pace up the mountain, talking as he climbed. Winthrop could do nothing but listen. He was breathless.

"Or that canon," continued Overland. "She might not be there if we stayed away all night. Besides, I'm scared to leave _it_ alone by itself."

"Leave what?" gasped Winthrop.

"It. The find I made while you was out surveyin' the Santa Fe. I was feared you'd get nervous prosecution if I told you all to once, so I breaks it easy like."

"What was it?"

"Nothin' but a tent in the canon we're campin' in. But, Billy, when you find a tent and some minin' tools and other signs of trouble 'way up some lonesome old slot in the hills, you want to get ready for a surprise. Mebby it'll be nothin' but some old clothes and bones. Mebby it'll be them and somethin' else. I didn't find the bones, but I found the somethin' else, coa.r.s.e, and fair dribblin' thick in the dirt. It's there and rich, Billy, rich!"

Overland Red turned and paused as Winthrop leaned against a rock.

"It's the--the real thing?" queried the Easterner.

"The real thing, pardner. Now what do you think of that for highbrow stuff?"

"Meaning that you stumbled on the secret?"

"If you want to say it that way, yes. Just like fallin' into a sewer and findin' a gold watch where you lit."

"Then it's all true? We've found the gold? You really believed we should, and for that matter, so did I. I can't say why. I rather felt that we should."

"I guess I'm some cla.s.s when it comes to findin' the incubator that hatches them little yella babies with the come-and-find-me eyes."

Winthrop straightened his tired shoulders. "You seem to think that you're pretty clever," he said, laughing. "But in the elegant and expressive diction of the late--the late Overland Red Summers, 'I think you're a b.u.m scout.'" And they shook hands, laughing as they turned to climb the trail.

Near the crest, Overland again paused. "Say, Billy, you said the 'late'

Overland Red Summers. You took particular noise to make me hear that word 'late.' Have you got any objections to explainin' that there idea?

I been examinin' the works of that word 'late,' and it don't tick right to me. 'Late' means 'planted,' don't it?"

"Sometimes. It may also mean behind time. Do you remember that I said, a day or two ago, that I shouldn't be surprised if the lost gold were in the very canon where we camped? I claim precedence of divination, auto-suggestion, and right of eminent domain. I shall not waive my prerogative."

"I never owned one," said Overland. "But afore I'll let you come any style over me, I'll have one made with a silk linin' and di'monds in the b.u.t.tons, jest as soon as the claim gets to payin' good. Say, pardner, it's _free_ gold, and _coa.r.s.e_. I wisht Collie was here--the little cuss."

"Collie?"

"Uhuh. The kid I was tellin' you about, that I adopted back in Albuquerque. He's got a share in this here deal, by rights. He invested his eight rollers and four bits in the chances of my findin' the stuff.

It was all the coin he had at the time. You see, I was campin' up on the Moonstone for a change of air, and Collie and me had a meetin' of the board of dissectors. The board votes unanimous to invest the paid-in capital in a suit of new jeans for the president, which was me. I got 'em on now. You see, I had to be dollied up to look the part so I could catch a come-on and get me grubstake."

"I see," said Winthrop, his gray eyes twinkling. "And I was the come-on?"

"Well," said Overland, scratching his head, "mebby you _was_, but you ain't no more. If she pans out anything like I expect, you'll be standin' up so clost to bein' rich that if she was a bronc' you'd get kicked sure."