“Oh, well, then, I’ll give you the whole story. We started out from Hamner’s Gulch one bright morning to go up what is known as the Black Hawk Ravine. Your father had an idea that he could set up a saw-mill there if a grinding-mill didn’t pay.”
“He never said anything about a saw-mill to me,” I put in.
“Your father was a very queer man,” said Mr. Norton. “Did he say anything about me in his letters, or about the money he borrowed?”
“Not a word.”
“I thought so. Guess he was ashamed of the money he let fly, traveling to this place and that, and paying a holding price down on half a dozen spots, and then letting them go.”
“But about the journey?” I said, anxious to get back to the particulars of my father’s death, which just now interested me more than anything else.
“Oh, yes! Well, we started out for the ravine, and we reached it about two o’clock in the afternoon. It was a wild spot, and I was for going back; but your father wanted to go ahead, and he did so, I following.”
“And was that where he lost his life?”
“Exactly. He was ahead, and by six o’clock it was getting dark. I called out to him to be careful, as we were then walking along a narrow ledge, and far below was a mountain torrent, ten times worse than this one you have here.”