What the vast silent world meant to him had always been
a mystical thing, which he felt in all its incalculable power, but
never understood.
That day, while it was yet light, and he was digging in a moist
white-bordered wash for water, he was brought sharply up by hearing
the crack of hard hoofs on stone. There down the canyon came a man
and a burro. Cameron recognized them.
"Hello, friend," called the man, halting. "Our trails crossed again.
That's good."
"Hello," replied Cameron, slowly. "Any mineral sign to-day?"
"No."
They made camp together, ate their frugal meal, smoked a pipe, and
rolled in their blankets without exchanging many words. In the
morning the same reticence, the same aloofness characterized the
manner of both. But Cameron's companion, when he had packed his
burro and was ready to start, faced about and said: "We might
stay together, if it's all right with you."
"I never take a partner," replied Cameron.
"You're alone; I'm alone," said the other, mildly. "It's a big
place. If we find gold there'll be enough for two."
"I don't go down into the desert for gold alone," rejoined Cameron,
with a chill note in his swift reply.
His companion's deep-set, luminous eyes emitted a singular flash.
It moved Cameron to say that in the years of his wandering he had
met no man who could endure equally with him the blasting heat,
the blinding dust storms, the wilderness of sand and rock and lava
and cactus, the terrible silence and desolation of the desert.
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