Late that afternoon Cherry took King's clothes from his room with the intention of hanging them outside for an hour before laying them away until he should be able to wear them again. It was a small service and an insignificant one, and yet she lingered over the task affectionately, shaking the dust from them and spreading them out flat upon the table, to smooth away the wrinkles. Gabe Smith, grown garrulous again because of renewed hopes of King's early recovery, was watching the process from beside the doorway.
"Don't you think you're some tender with that coat?" he asked. "Shake it well—there's a sight o' dust in that old jacket!"
For reply she threw the coat towards him.
"Here, Gabe," she remarked dryly, "why sit there and watch me do the dirty work?"
As he put out his hands to receive the coat something fell from one of the pockets. Cherry stooped to pick it up and then held it towards Gabe. It was a small bundle of folded papers. Gabe took it, and at the first glance his old face almost went white.
"My God!" he whispered hoarsely.
"Why, Gabe, what's wrong?" Cherry asked.
"I forgot," he said, looking at the papers in his hand. "It's the location—the timber claim. And McCartney—McCartney's been away from camp since—I don't know. We're beat."
And even as Gabe Smith spoke those words Hugh Hurley was sitting in his office in The Town, looking through his little window to where the valley lay smiling under the late afternoon sun. He was troubled in spirit—more troubled than he had been for a long time. Less than an hour had elapsed since an unwelcome visitor had come to town. But already the visitor's name was scrawled in the big registry book where claims were officially recorded. The claim was an extensive one in the hills that rose to the south of The Town, some ten or fifteen miles away—and the name on the record was the name of Bill McCartney.
Besides Hugh Hurley there was but one other person in that sleepy little town, more sleepy and settled, it seemed, than ever—whose spirit was not all calm. McCartney had stepped out of Cheney's place and was standing in the street by himself, rolling a cigarette in a leisurely manner that was contentment itself. He lifted his eyes for a moment and caught sight of Anne coming towards him. What was almost a frown passed quickly across his face, but was immediately replaced by a look of amusement, feigned or genuine it would have been impossible to say, and he continued to roll his cigarette without the slightest indication that he knew of the girl's approach.