"Sure."
"That settles it, Dick, definitely. Last night those two fellows were dressed like men about town and wore diamonds. They've soaked their information out of Garvin, and they are on their way to locate that claim."
It was Bartrow's turn to gasp and stammer. "What?—locate the—Cæsar's ghost, man, you're daft! They wouldn't take Garvin with them!"
"They would do just that. In the first place, with the most accurate description of the locality that Garvin, drunk, could give them, there would be the uncertainty of finding it without a guide. They know that they have left a sane man behind them who can find the way back to the claim; and their only chance was to take Garvin along, keeping him drunk enough to be unsuspicious, and not too drunk to pilot them. Once on the ground ahead of me, and with Garvin in their power, they can do the worst."
Bartrow came alive to the probabilities in the catching of a breath. "Which will be to kill Garvin safely out of the way, post the claim, and snap their fingers at the world. Good Lord!—and I let 'em knock him down and drag him out under my very eyes! I'd ought to be shot."
"It's not your fault, Dick; it's mine. I saw what was in the wind last night, and stuck to Garvin till I got him to bed. I was dog-tired,—we'd been tramping all day,—and I thought he was safe to sleep the clock around. I hid his boots, dragged my bed across the door, and went to sleep."
"You couldn't have done less—or more. What happened?"
"This. Those two fellows had the room next to us, and there was a door between. They slipped him out this morning before I was awake."
"Of course; all cut out and shaped up beforehand. But, thank the Lord, there's a ghost of a chance yet. Where is the claim?"
"It is three days' march a little to the south of west, on the headwaters of a stream which flows into the Gunnison River."