"Gold! I'm sick of gold—sick of the very word. I'd give all the gold there is in the world just to see Laura once again. That's all I'd ask—to see her just once. Then I'd be willing to die in peace. She has no idea of this. Do you think they'll ever know? Maybe some one will find our bodies."
Bill made no answer. He was paying no attention. His mind was too weak to grasp what was said. He had only one thought—one fixed thought—and that was—gold. Pointing off in the distance, where a mass of moss-covered rock rose like some gigantic vessel in an ocean of snow, he said in a thick, uncertain voice:
"John, my boy, I had a dream last night. I dreamt I tried some of them high spots yonder. I struck the rock with my pick, and suddenly I was dazzled. Wet flakes of shining gold stared up at me from the quartz. I struck again, and there was more gold. I pulled the moss from it, and everywhere there was gold. I struck right and left, and a perfect shower of nuggets as big as my head rolled at my feet. Then I woke up."
"Yes," said John sarcastically, "then you woke up."
Bill nodded stupidly.
"I know it was only a dream," he said, "but somehow I can't get the gold out of my head. I've a notion to go and try them rocks. You might try in the other direction."
John shrugged his shoulders.
"Won't do any harm as I know of," he said wearily. "Go and try. I'll stay here a while and nurse my frost bites. When I'm rested I'll go and try my luck."
His mate rose, and taking his pick, the weight of which was almost too much for his strength, said cheerily:
"If I find anything, I'll holler," he said.