Yaqui had led him
to a ledge of gold. Gale had learned enough about mineral to know
that this was a rich strike. All in a second he was speechless
with the joy of it. But his mind whirled in thought about this
strange and noble Indian, who seemed never to be able to pay a
debt. Belding and the poverty that had come to him! Nell, who
had wept over the loss of a spring! Laddy, who never could ride
again! Jim Lash, who swore he would always look after his friend!
Thorne and Mercedes! All these people, who had been good to him
and whom he loved, were poor. But now they would be rich. They
would one and all be his partners. He had discovered the source
of Forlorn River, and was rich in water. Yaqui had made him rich
in gold. Gale wanted to rush down the slope, down into the valley,
and tell his wonderful news.
Suddenly his eyes cleared and he saw the pile of stones. His
blood turned to ice, then to fire. That was the mark of a prospector's
claim. But it was old, very old. The ledge had never been worked.
the slope was wild. There was not another single indication that
a prospector had ever been there. Where, then, was he who had
first staked this claim? Gale wondered with growing hope, with
the fire easing, with the cold passing.
The Yaqui uttered the low, strange, involuntary cry so
rare with him, a cry somehow always associated with death.
Gale shuddered.
The Indian was digging in the sand and dust under the shelving wall.
Pages:
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397