"So they say--although I never see none."

"It's pretty cold for snakes," remarked d.i.c.k. "They only come out in the summer time."

"I wish we were on horseback," said Sam, with a sigh.

"Hosses would be fine, if we could feed 'em," answered Jack Wumble.

"But ye can't do thet when the ground is covered with snow."

"The outfits are so heavy, Jack."

"True, my boy, but thet can't be helped. We'll be lucky if our grub holds out."

It was after four o'clock when they reached the top of the hill. Had it been clear they might have seen for many miles around them, but now the dullness in the sky hid what was in the distance from view.

"Lion Head is over thar," said Jack Wumble, pointing with his hand.

"An' Twin Rocks can't be far off."

"And how far is Lion Head from here?" questioned Sam.

"Betwixt twenty an' thirty miles, Sam."

"Then maybe we'll reach there by to-morrow night."

"Let us hope so, lad. O' course you must remember we've got the wust part o' this journey to go."

"Perhaps we'll catch Tom before we get to Lion Head," suggested d.i.c.k.

"Not by the way he has been traveling," answered his brother. "It does beat the nation how he and that Furner have been able to get over the ground."

On the top of the hill the wind was blowing a regular gale and the boys and the old miner were glad enough to go down on the other side, where they would be somewhat sheltered. But even below it was cold, and the air seemed to strike to their very backbones.

"Winter is comin' all right enough," announced Jack Wumble. "We'll be lucky if we git out o' here afore it catches us."

They trudged along until all were too weary to walk another step. They were keeping their eyes open for a spot where they might camp for the night, when d.i.c.k uttered a cry.

"Look! They must have remained here last night!"

The others gazed to where he pointed and saw, in a shelter of the rocks, the remains of a campfire. Beside the ashes lay a part of a broken strap and also some fine shavings from a stick.

"Ike Furner's mark," remarked Wumble, pointing to the shavings. They had been told by several men that one of Furner's habits was to whittle a stick. He never rested and talked but what he got out his jackknife and started to cut on a bit of wood. At another campfire, two days back, they had come across a heap of just such whittlings.

"How new is that campfire?" asked d.i.c.k, of the old miner.

Jack Wumble examined the heap of dead ashes with care.

"I should say not more'n a day--maybe not thet," he answered. "Boys, I reckon we're close on 'em."

"Oh, if only it wasn't so dark and we weren't so tired!" murmured Sam.

"We can't do much in the darkness, and with a storm coming on,"

returned d.i.c.k. "We'll have to wait until morning. But we had better start out directly it is daylight."

While the others were preparing supper, d.i.c.k commenced to arrange the shelter for the night. While he was doing this he noticed something white fluttering on the ground in the wind. He picked it up. It was a sheet of paper, evidently a page torn from a notebook.

"Look what I found," he said, coming close to the light of the campfire. He gazed at the sheet with deep interest. "Well, I never!

Sam, look at this!" he cried.

"What is it, d.i.c.k?"

"I think Tom wrote this. Poor fellow! Isn't it too bad!"

The sheet of paper had been scribbled on with a lead pencil. The writing was in all sorts of curves, and was largely as follows:

_To To To To Ro Ro Ro To Ro To Bri To Ro Bri Nel Nel Nel Di S S To Ro To Ro Tover Tomer Nel Nel Nel Nel Neltom_

"Oh, d.i.c.k, what do you make of this?"

"What do I make of it? Can't you see, Sam? Tom was trying to think.

He wanted to get something that was hidden away in his memory--his own name, and mine and yours, and Nellie's, and the name of Brill. Maybe a flash of his real self came back to him."

"Oh, if it only would, d.i.c.k! Yes, you must be right. First he tried his best to write Tom Rover, but all he got was To Ro, and then he went to Bri for Brill and Nel for Nellie, and Di and S for d.i.c.k and Sam.

It's as plain as day. It's just like a little child trying to write."

"And it's enough to make a fellow cry," was the sober response.

The two boys studied the paper for a long time and let Jack Wumble look at it. Then, somewhat silently, all sat down to supper. Their hard walk had made them hungry and they ate every sc.r.a.p of what had been prepared.

By the time they were ready to turn in, it had begun to snow. The had found a shelter under a cliff of rocks, with some brushwood to keep off the most of the wind. They rolled themselves in their blankets and soon all were in the land of dreams.

d.i.c.k had slumbered the best part of several hours, when he suddenly awoke with a start. Some furry body had swept across his face. He sat up in bewilderment and looked around the camp, lit up only by the flickering rays of the dying fire. Then he gave a gasp. From beyond the dying fire two savage eyes were gazing at him intently. Without hesitation he reached down under his blanket, brought out the pistol he carried, and fired.

CHAPTER XXI

AT THE FOOT OF THE CLIFF

Crack!

The report of the pistol in that confined s.p.a.ce sounded loud and clear, and brought Sam and Jack Wumble to their feet with a bound.

"What's the matter, d.i.c.k?"

"What ye firing at?"

"Some wild animal. It just leaped over me!" cried the one who had used the firearm. d.i.c.k was now on his feet, too, and all stepped away from the shelter of the cliff.