"Dat ar edvice is 'tended foh Mistah Sam," laughed Ike, as he helped himself again. "But vanzon pie an' 'possums are two tings I ain't nebber got my fill ob up to dis time."
Sam heard but did not heed the talk of his companions, for his attention was at the moment attracted to two strange men who were slowly making their way down the trail on the opposite side of the cañon wall.
As there was danger from prowling bands of Indians who had left the reservation, and also from white outlaws who frequently robbed weak mining camps, every one at Gold Cave Camp strapped on a belt, with a knife and pistols in it, as regularly as he pulled on his boots.
Starting to his feet and followed by Ike, Sam went down to the stream, getting there just as the two men reached the bottom.
One of the strangers was a tall, dark-bearded man, with one eye, and the other was a short, yellow-skinned man with a mean expression of face, whom Sam recognized as his cousin, Frank Shirley.
Sam had never spoken to this man, so he did not greet him like an acquaintance now.
Both men were well armed, as is the fashion of the country, and when they came within hailing distance, Frank Shirley called out:
"Hello, young man, is this Mr. Willett's camp?"
"It is, sir," was Sam's reply, as he came to a halt.
"Is Mr. Willett home?"