The glade lay in the pleasant afternoon sunshine much as it had done the day that Gard said good-by to it. A big live-oak branch had fallen across the ocotilla bed where he had often rested. Helen surveyed the rude structure with quivering lips, as he pulled the branch away.
Sandy Larch was unloading the animals, piling up the stores, and getting things into shape, with the help of the three men of the outfit. By the big fireplace against the rock Wing Chang, who had cast in his fortunes with the new company, was taking stock of Gard’s culinary apparatus.
“What do you think of it, Chang?” the latter asked, as the cook investigated the upturned bean-pot.
“Where you catchee him?” the Chinaman demanded, much mystified.
“I made it. Made them all.” Gard waved a hand at the various fire-blackened clay pots. Chang tapped the bean-kettle with an investigating knuckle, testing its soundness.
“Him no clacked,” he said, with a grunt. “Mebby you no clacked; mebby so allee lightee.”
And no further expression of opinion could be won from him.
Helen made a swift round of the place, Gard following, scarcely able to believe in his own happiness. She inspected the cabin, and cast her vote for living outside it. The seats and tables that Gard had contrived gave her great delight, and she rejoiced in the flaming green of the volunteer crop of oats into which Jinny had already found her wilful way.
“I dare say your gold-mine’s all right, Gard,” Sandy said, coming up to survey the oat patch, “but if it shouldn’t be, there’s another one right on this here plain, if that water was turned acrost it.”
“I vum!” He pulled a head of oats and examined it. “The Palo Verde’s a howlin’ wilderness,” he avowed, “to what a man could have here.”