The Gold Trail Part 36

Grenfell, who showed no sign of resentment, laughed again.

"As I think I told you, I've been troubled with memories that seem half dreams. I'm not sure that's quite unusual in the case of a man who has consumed as much whisky as I have. Besides, it's a little difficult to distinguish between dreams and what we look upon as realities, since the latter exist only in the perception of our senses, which may be deceptive. They agree on that point, don't they, in places as dissimilar as India and Germany?"

"Are you sure you didn't dream about the lead?" Weston asked bluntly.

"It's a point that has been troubling me for a considerable time."

"Then why did you come up with me to search for the lake?"

"I was once or twice told at home that I was a persistent imbecile.

That may account for it."

"Well," said Grenfell, reflectively, "your action on one or two occasions seems to warrant the observation--I mean when you stood the boys off me after I'd spoiled their supper, and the other time when you decided on my account not to stay on at the copper-mine. Still, I want to say that while I seem to know I will not make another journey on the gold trail, I've had a subconscious feeling of certainty since sunrise yesterday that the lake lies just ahead of us. I know nothing definite that justifies it, but we'll probably find out to-morrow.

There's just another thing. If I leave my bones up here my share falls to you."

He seemed disinclined for any further conversation, and Weston went to sleep again. When he awakened the moon had sunk behind the range, and a faint gray light was filtering down beneath the blackened pines. It showed the pack-horse standing close by, and Devine stretched out beneath his blanket, a shadowy, shapeless figure, but there was, as far as Weston could see, no sign of Grenfell anywhere. He called out sharply as soon as he was sure of this, and his voice rang hollowly up the valley, but there was no answer until Devine slowly shook clear of his blankets.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Grenfell's gone."

"Gone!" Devine was on his feet in a moment.

"It looks like it," said Weston, sharply. "Can you see him?"

Devine gazed into the shadows, but he saw nothing beyond the rows of dusky trunks.

"Where's he gone?"

"That," said Weston, "is naturally just what I don't know. It's up to us to find out."

Then he briefly related his conversation with Grenfell, and the two looked at each other. There was just light enough to show the anxiety in their faces.

"Well," said Devine, "it's quite clear to me that he's on the trail; and it's fortunate in one way that he's left a plain trail behind him.

Whether the whole thing's a delusion on his part, or whether he did strike that lode, I don't know, but I didn't like the man's looks yesterday. He seemed badly played out, and it kind of struck me he was just holding on." He turned toward the pack-horse and pulled up the picket. "Anyway, we'll get upon his trail."

They both were men of action, and inside of five minutes they had lashed their packs together and started without breakfast. Weston led the horse, while Devine picked up Grenfell's trail. Weston was a little astonished at the ease with which his companion did this.

"It's quite simple," said the surveyor, when the other stopped a moment where the footprints seemed to break off, and questioned his decision. "He's heading straight on, and not walking like a man with much strength in him. I wish I knew just how far he is ahead of us."

Then he added in explanation: "I went east for a while, but I was raised in this country, and this is 'way easier than trailing a deer."

They went on a little faster after that, for Devine had promptly picked up the trail again, and by the time the red sun had cleared the range it led them out of the brulee and into a waste of rock and gravel, where there were smaller firs and strips of tangled undergrowth. Here and there Devine stopped for a few minutes, but he found the trail again, though it led them through thickets, and now and then they floundered among half-rotten fallen trunks and branches.

Fortunately, the horse was a Cayuse and used to that kind of work.

It rapidly grew hotter, until the perspiration streamed from them, and Weston, who had eaten very little the previous evening, became conscious of an unpleasant st.i.tch in his side; but they pushed on without flagging, urged by a growing anxiety. At length the ground, which was a little clearer, rose sharply in front of them. Weston pulled up the pack-horse and looked significantly at Devine, who nodded.

"Yes," he a.s.sented, "he said a low divide. The lake lay just beyond it."

Then he cast about with his eyes fixed on the loose gravel over which they had scrambled, until he came to a spot where a wide patch of half-rotted needles lay beneath another belt of pines.

"He stopped here and sat down," he commented. "Seemed to have had some trouble in pulling out again. I don't like those footsteps. You and I don't walk like that."

"Get on," said Weston, sharply, and, turning, struck the horse.

The sun was overhead when they scrambled, gasping, over the crest of the divide and looked down into another long, winding hollow. Then they stopped again and looked hard at each other, for the hollow seemed filled with forest, and there was nowhere any shimmer of shining water.

"He can't be far ahead. Went through those vines in front of you,"

said Devine.

Then ensued an hour's wild scramble through undergrowth in shade, until they broke out, dripping with perspiration, from the gloom among the pines into a comparatively open s.p.a.ce on the edge of a wide belt of willows. They left the horse tethered on the outskirts of the latter; and twenty minutes afterward Devine, who had scrambled up and down among the undergrowth, stopped suddenly.

"Come here," he cried with a suggestive hoa.r.s.eness. "We're through with this trail."

He was standing waist-deep among the tangled brushwood, and it was a minute before Weston smashed through it to his side. Then he, too, stopped and started, for he saw a huddled object in tattered duck lying face downward at his comrade's feet. The latter made a little gesture when he met Weston's eyes.

"We'll make sure," he said quietly. "Still, you see how he's lying."

Weston dropped on his knees, and with some difficulty turned the prostrate figure over. Then he took off his battered hat and looked up at Devine with it in his hand. The latter nodded.

"Yes," he said, "he has pulled out once for all. Started two or three hours ago on a trail we can't pick up yet."

They drew back a little and sat down heavily on a ledge of stone, for the sight of the huddled figure in the tattered duck troubled them. It was a minute or two before either of them spoke.

"Heart trouble of some kind," said the surveyor. "If not, it isn't going to matter."

He looked around at his companion with a little wave of his hand which seemed to deprecate the mention of the subject.

"He can't tell us now where that lode is."

Weston said nothing for a minute. After all, there was so little that could be said. Then he stretched himself wearily.

"There is something to be done, but I don't feel quite equal to it yet, and I'm parched with thirst. Willows grow only where there's water."

"These," said Devine, "look kind of sickly. You can see quite a few of them have dried up; but it's a sure thing they had water to start them. Wish I knew how to strike it. It's most three days since I had what one could call a drink."

"Did you ever hear of water-finding?"

"Yes," answered Devine. "I've read a little about the old country.

Kind of old English charlatanry, isn't it?"

"Well," said Weston, simply, "I could find water once upon a time. I know that, because I've done it."

"Don't you need a hazel fork? You can't get one here."

"I don't think the hazel matters. The power is in the man. I can cut a fork out of something."

Devine made a little gesture which seemed expressive of resignation.

"Well," he said, "whether we go on or go back we have to have a drink.