A RUDE AWAKENING
“Look out!” was White’s warning to Lieutenant Wingate, as the guide
sprang forward to the man on the ground.
“Is he dead?” called Elfreda, getting up to go forward to the
visitor’s assistance.
“No. Stay where you are for the present, please.” The camp was
silent for a moment, then White stood up. “It’s Jim Haley!” he
announced. “And he has been pretty roughly used.”
“The Man from Seattle!” cried the girls. Elfreda was at his side
instantly.
“Is he wounded?” she asked.
“I think not,” replied the guide.
“See if he has any peanuts with him,” advised Stacy Brown.
“Stacy!” Hippy’s voice was stern, and the fat boy subsided.
A quick examination by White and Miss Briggs failed to reveal any
wounds. They brought water, and Elfreda bathed Haley’s face, which,
though bloody, was only scratched, probably by contact with bushes.
It took but a short time to revive him, his trouble being almost
wholly exhaustion. Grace hastened to make a pot of tea, which Haley
gulped down and instantly recovered himself.
“Sorry I lost my samples, or I’d not have been in this shape,” he
said, grinning.
“What happened to you?” Hippy asked.
“Same old story. The mountain ruffians wanted peanuts, so they
tackled me. One taste of the International’s product and men will
commit murder to get more of it. I threw away all I had, and they’re
picking them up along the trail. It was the only way I could get rid
of the scoundrels. Then I got into more trouble. A pack of wolves
got the scent of the peanuts and they tackled me, too, but I hadn’t
any of the International’s product to throw to them, so I had to run
for it. They chased me nearly all the way in. ‘Good for man and
beast’ is the slogan that I shall send on to the International for
use in their publicity matter.”
The girls were now laughing heartily, but, as they recalled the
manner of Haley’s leaving them, they subsided abruptly. Haley’s now
merry eyes caught the significance of the change.
[Illustration: “I’m Done For!”]
“What have I said or done now? Is it because I have no peanuts for
you good people?”
“I think the young ladies would like an explanation of your sudden
departure the other night,” spoke up Hippy Wingate.
“Were I to tell you that I ran away because I was afraid, you
probably would not believe me, so I’ll not tell you that. There are
some things one can speak of freely, and others that he cannot. This
latter happens to be my difficulty now. If you feel that you do not
want me, of course I shall not impose upon you. I thank you, but I
warn you that you are not to enjoy any of the International’s
product until you reach home. They eat ’em alive up here.”
“You are quite welcome to remain as long as you wish. Please stay
over Sunday with us, Mr. Haley,” requested Grace. “We hope to have a
spread for our Sunday dinner,” she added laughingly.
“You win, Mrs. Gray. Unfortunately, my International raiment is in a
sad condition, but if you will lend me a pair of shears I’ll cut off
the ragged ends and try to make myself presentable.”
The girls, at this juncture, bade the men good-night and turned in,
for there were not many hours left for sleep, and they were now very
tired after the exciting night through which they had passed.
A few words passed between the guide and the peanut man, and Ham
White listened with a heavy frown on his face.
“I won’t do it!” he exclaimed. “Do you think you would were you in
my position?”
“If the International’s product didn’t pay me I should,” answered
the peanut man, with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Oh, hang the International!” retorted White. “I give you fair
warning that I’ll not double-cross these young women for you or for
any of your confounded outfit. I’ve done enough already, and I am
thinking of going to them and making a clean breast of what I have
done and then get out.”
“Don’t be a fool, White. Here! Read this.” Haley extended a folded
slip of paper to the guide, who opened and read it, the frown
deepening on his forehead.
White handed back the slip of paper, and resting his chin in the
palm of his hand sat regarding the distant campfire thoughtfully,
for they had withdrawn out of earshot of the camp for their
conversation.
“Very well!” agreed Hamilton White after a few moments’ reflection.
“I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a wolf, but if anything
happens here as a result I shall tell why. Remember that, Haley.”
“Oh, well, what’s a bag of peanuts more or less?” was the enigmatic
reply of the Man from Seattle. “I’ll take a nip of sleep, if you
don’t mind, and be on my way, but not _far_ away.”
The queer visitor took the blanket that had been given to him, and,
walking back into the forest a short distance from the camp, lay
down and went to sleep. The guide did not turn in at all, but sat
silently in the shadows, rifle at his side, thinking and listening.
Thus the rest of the night passed, and day began to dawn.
With the breaking of the day Hamilton White climbed the miniature
mountain, and drawing a single-barreled glass from his pocket began
studying the landscape. A tiny spiral of smoke about two miles to
the north claimed his instant attention. He studied it for a few
moments. At first the smoke was quite dark, then the spiral grew
thin and gray as it waved lazily on the still morning air.
“Someone is building a breakfast fire,” he muttered. “And they know
how to build a fire, too. That may be Haley’s crowd. Ah!”
As White slowly swept his glass around he discovered something else
that aroused his keen interest. On a distant mountain a flag was
being wigwagged. He could not see the operator of it, but he was
able to follow the message that was being spelled out.
Another shift of his glass and a careful study of known localities
enabled the guide to find the person who was receiving the message,
and soon the receiver began answering with his signal flag.
Ham White grinned as he read both messages.
“The forest eyes of Uncle Sam!” he murmured. The signalers were
forest lookouts whose eyes were constantly on the alert watching
over the vast forest within their range for suspicious smokes, and
they were having a friendly Sunday morning conversation over a
distance of nearly four miles.
Ham read and smiled.
“If they knew they would be more careful of what they said,” he
chuckled, then a few moments later he climbed down, returned to camp
and started the breakfast fire. He fried some strips of bacon, put
on the coffee, and then he sounded the breakfast call.
“Come and get it!” was the call that rang out on the mountain air.
The Overlanders thought they wanted to sleep, in fact, they were
hardly awake when they got lip grumbling, in most instances, and
began hurriedly dressing. All were shivering, for the air was very
chill. The odor of the breakfast, when they smelled it, added to the
haste of their dressing.
“Stick your heads in the cold water and you will be all right,”
advised the guide.
The girls returned from the spring, their faces rich with color,
eyes sparkling, and ready for breakfast.
“How are the appetites? I don’t ask you, Mr. Brown. You have proved
to my satisfaction that you can eat whether you are hungry or not,”
laughed White.
“We are ready for breakfast, sir,” answered Elfreda Briggs. “My, but
it does smell good.” “Where is Mr. Haley?” questioned Grace,
regarding the guide with a look of inquiry in her eyes.
“He thought best to sleep outside of the camp, and no doubt has gone
on before this.”
“Why, Mr. White?” persisted Grace.
“That is a question that I can’t answer just now, Mrs. Gray,”
returned the guide, meeting her eyes in a level gaze.
“Oh, very well. We will have breakfast.”
“We will,” agreed Stacy, and began to help himself from the frying
pan, when the guide smilingly placed a hand on the fat boy’s arm.
“You forget the ladies, Mr. Brown,” he reminded.
“Forget them? How could I?”
“It is you who forget, Hamilton,” interposed Emma. “You forget that
Stacy Brown never was brought up.”
“Give me the chuck!” whispered Stacy. “Heap the plate.”
White, catching the significance of the request, heaped the plate,
and Stacy bore it to Emma with great dignity. He bowed low and
offered the plate.
“Your highness is served,” he said. “If you will be so kind as to
call your sweet soul to earth from the ethereal realms above long
enough to feed that sweet soul on a few fat slices of common pig,
you will be a real human being. I thank you,” added the boy, as
Emma, her face flushing, took the plate, her lips framing a reply
which was never uttered. The shout of laughter that greeted Stacy’s
act and words left Emma without speech. Nor did she speak more than
once during the meal, then only to ask for another cup of coffee.
Breakfast finished and the morning work done in camp, the three men
went out to groom the horses, while Grace and Elfreda strayed away.
Their objective was the rock from which Ham White had made his early
observation.
“Have you the diary?” asked Grace as they seated themselves. “Oh,
what a wonderful view. Isn’t it superb?”
“Yes, I have the diary, and I see the view, and agree with you that
it is superb, but suppose we get down to business before we are
interrupted. I do not believe we shall be spied on here, at least,”
said Elfreda, glancing about her.
The thumb-worn book was produced, and the girls bent over it,
beginning with the first page. There were daily weather comments,
movements of the prospector from place to place, little incidents in
his daily life, none of which seemed to shed any light on the
subject in which the two girls were interested.
“Here is something!” breathed Grace finally, and read, under date of
April 30, the following paragraph:
“‘Plenty here. Dare not dig, for am watched. Picked up in channel
enough pay-dirt to keep over next winter. Channel itself ought to
pan out fortune, but shall have to have help. Isn’t safe to try it
alone. The gang of cutthroats would murder me. Some day mebby
they’ll get me as it is.’”
“Hm-m-m-m,” murmured Miss Briggs. “I wondered why, if he had made
such a find, Mr. Petersen shouldn’t get out the gold and put it in a
safe place before someone got ahead of him. The diary seems to
furnish a reason for his delay. He must refer to the Murray gang.”
“Listen to this entry, Elfreda,” begged Grace, reading:
“‘Queer thing this morning. The sun was shining on the children, and
on grandma’s bonnet, but her face was as black as a nigger’s. I
wonder if that was a warning to me to keep away. Gold, gold! How
terrible is the lure for the yellow stuff. It gets into the blood,
it eats into the heart. It’s a frightful disease.’”
“That checks up with what Mr. Petersen had me to write down, doesn’t
it, Grace?” breathed Elfreda.
“Undoubtedly. He must refer to the same thing, but it doesn’t give
us the least idea where the place is.”
“The man would be a fool to write a thing like that in a diary—to
tell where and how. Anything else? There is something on the next
page.”
“Yes,” answered Grace, turning the page and reading:
“‘Though I haven’t found it, I know pretty well where the mother
lode is, but I’m afraid of it—afraid to look for it. I’m afraid the
wealth I should find there would kill me just because of the
responsibility of possessing it. Then again, what is there left in
life after a man has got all he has dreamed of, and yearned for, and
fought for, and worked for, up to that time? Nothing!’”
“What a philosopher!” marvelled Grace Harlowe.
“He is right, too,” agreed Miss Briggs. “Suppose we forget about it,
also,” urged Elfreda. “I am tired of it.”
“J. Elfreda, if I didn’t know you so well, I should believe you are
in love, you are so gloomy. Listen! Mr. Petersen probably has no one
surviving him. He wished you to have what he had found. It was the
request of a man about to pass out; it was a trust, Elfreda. One day
someone, perhaps the very ones who tried to kill him, will stumble
on the Lost Mine. I should say that the prospector’s request imposed
a duty on you, my dear—a duty to go to the place he names, take
possession of what you may find there and keep it for your own. You
can’t expect to make a fortune practicing law, especially if you
don’t do more practicing than you have done in the last few years. I
fear these summer outings of ours have cost each of us something.”
Elfreda said she didn’t regret the loss of time. Her time was her
own, and she had sufficient funds to enable her to take care of
herself and the little daughter that she had adopted a few years
before.
“The question is, though, how am I going to find this place—how are
we going to find it, I mean, for what I find is for the outfit, not
for my own selfish self. I—”
Elfreda’s eyes had been wandering over the scene that lay before
them as Grace slowly turned the leaves of the diary. Miss Briggs
thought she had seen a movement off to the right at the edge of the
rock farthest from the camp.
“What is it?” demanded Grace, glancing up quickly.
“Nothing. Go on. Find anything else?”
“Only this: ‘When the sun is at the meridian the sands turn to
golden yellow,’” read Grace.
“What does he mean, do you think?”
“I suppose he means to convey that the bed of the dry stream, if it
is dry, shows a sort of golden strip. That is all I can make of it.
There seems to be nothing else in the book in reference to the
subject in which we are particularly interested. I am certain that
the poor man knew what he was saying; I believe that he believed he
had found what he says he found. Whether he did find it or not is
quite another matter. In any event Lost River and the lost mine are
well worth looking for as we go along. If there be such a place,
Overland luck will lead us to it,” finished Grace.
“I doubt it—I was going to say I hope Overland luck doesn’t lead us
to it, to our River of Doubt. Oh, Grace!”
“Wha—at is it?”
“Oh, look!”
A black head of hair, lifted just above the level of the rock on the
far side, revealed a low forehead and a pair of burning black
eyes—evil eyes they seemed to the two startled girls. They could not
see the hands that were gripping the edge of the rock, but what they
could see was sufficient to fill them with alarm.
Without an instant’s hesitation, Elfreda Briggs snatched up a chunk
of flinty rock and hurled it with all her might. The chunk of rock
fell a couple of yards short of the mark, bounced up into the air,
and landed fairly on the man’s head.
“Who says a woman can’t throw a stone!” cried J. Elfreda Briggs
almost hysterically.