“For that matter, the size of an emerald isn’t as important as its shape and color,” Mr. Livingston added.
Before the Scouts had been long on the steep, winding trail, they noted evidence that Mrs. Rhodes, traveling fast, was well ahead of them. At a spring they came upon her heel marks, and Willie picked up a lacy handkerchief with the letter “R” embroidered in one corner.
“It’s Mrs. Rhodes, all right,” he asserted gloomily. “I’d hoped Jose was wrong.”
“She’s making better time than we are,” Jack nodded in chagrin.
Skirting outthrusts of rock, the Scouts continued to follow a fairly well outlined trail. As the sun rose higher, they could see sharp peaks with caps of snow outlined against the blue sky. Climbing above the desolate little farms to a world of chilly isolation, they met no one. Higher and higher they struggled, marveling anew at the remarkable stamina of the woman ahead.
“You got to hand it to her,” Willie admitted grudgingly. “She’s tough.”
“Don’t waste any sympathy or admiration,” Jack advised. “That old gal has a grim purpose that is driving her on.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could toss a stick,” Willie answered quickly. “The mere fact that she’s going to the mine makes me suspicious.”
“If it’s true her husband is at Emerald Valley, that’ll make two of ’em to gang up on us,” interposed War soberly. “I guess Appleby Corning will be glad to see us arrive. He may be in a spot.”
Descending into a valley area where the trail was nearly obliterated by dense foliage and creepers, the Scouts encountered rain. It let up by late afternoon. Nevertheless, Mr. Livingston decided to camp early.