“Isn’t that a light off yonder?”
The guide gazed in that direction and replied:
“Yes, but it comes from a camp fire, which isn’t more than a half mile away.”
The men looked in one another’s faces and the captain asked in a guarded voice, as if afraid of being overheard:
“Whose fire is it?”
“There’s no saying with any sartinty, till we get 211 closer, but I shouldn’t be ’sprised if it belong to the folks you’re looking for.”
The same thought had come to each. There was a compression of lips, a flashing of eyes and an expression of resolution that boded ill for him who was the cause of it all.
In the early morning at this elevation, the air was raw and chilling. The wind which blew fitfully brought an icy touch from the peaks of the snow-clad Sierras. The party had ridden nearly all night, with only comparatively slight pauses, so that the men would have welcomed a good long rest but for the startling discovery just made.
Over the eastern cliffs the sky was rapidly assuming a rosy tinge. Day was breaking and soon the wild region would be flooded with sunshine. Already the gigantic masses of stone and rock were assuming grotesque form in the receding gloom. The dismal night was at an end.
The twinkling light which had caught the eye of Felix Brush appeared to be directly ahead and near the trail which they were traveling. This fact strengthened the belief that the fire had been kindled by the fugitives. The illumination paled as the sun climbed the sky, until it was absorbed by the overwhelming radiance that was everywhere.