"No, Dad, I give you my word, I've never been in that hole since the day I carried poor Bill's broken body out. I've never been near since I put that great, heavy lock on the door, and then I dropped the only key into the old shaft. I thought that perhaps some time the temptation to go back in might be too strong, and I'd do it."
Both smoked silently for a long time, then Dad spoke:
"S'posin' somebody would jump ye over yonder, Tad. What's to hinder 'em a breakin' in an' startin' operations? I've heerd tell that old Williams claimed that property, but course it's a dern lie—"
"He couldn't jump it, Dad, because I hold the deed to it. We proved up on that, you know, the summer before; but I believe Williams does hold a placer claim on the property. You know placers can run into regular lode claims. He could claim the tunnel, all right, too, I suppose, if the owner couldn't be found. Especially since he seems to be the only relative Bill had, except his wife."
"What do ye s'pose ever possessed that old pole-cat to stake a placer claim jest there, 'stead o' somewhere else? The dirt won't pan color, will it?" asked Dad. "That's just what has bothered me, Dad. The only way that I can figure it out is that Williams got some inkling of the prospects of the tunnel from some of Bill's papers or letters. It wasn't two weeks after Bill died till that old skinflint went tramping up there and staked that placer claim. He's worked assessments on it every year since. One year he repaired the cabin, and one year he built a dam; at other times he built a bridge and a trail, and dug an assessment hole or two—most anything to get in the required hundred dollars' worth of working. It's that, more than anything else, that has set me to wondering just what was in the old hole, after all, that made him so interested. Bill was conscious long enough to talk a little before he died, and I never believed that Williams told me the truth about what he said. It's taken me a long time to think it all out, but I believe there is something I don't know about the deal."
"Well, who knows, Tad, who knows; maybe we're a sittin' on a pile o' gold nuggets this minute; but we'll never see 'em; mark my words, boy, we'll never see 'em. God Almighty's a savin' 'em fer somethin', if there is any, an' if we ain't to have 'em, we'll never git 'em, that's sure." After a few vigorous puffs, Dad lapsed into a long silence, and soon Tad arose to go.
"Good-night, Dad, good-night," he said in an absent-minded way, as he started through the old door and up the trail.
Some time in the night the clouds broke and the stars came out clear and shining. A warm current of air came gently up from the valley, softly shaking the ever-responsive leaves of the stately aspens. The night was absolutely still, and the fire had burned down till all that remained of it was a rounded heap of brightly-glowing embers. Far, far away a turtle dove was calling—calling so softly that it almost seemed to be imagination. Now and then a katydid would lift its tiny voice for a few seconds.
Willis rose cautiously on one shoulder, and looked about him. He placed his hand to his ear and gazed intently out into the darkness. What was that? He shut his eyes that he might hear the better. He could not be mistaken, he had heard a dry twig snap—one, two, three little dry, rasping sounds. Perhaps it was just a rabbit or a squirrel. Again he raised himself cautiously on his shoulder and peered out into the shadows. There! another snap, this time nearer and more distinct. The night breeze gently fanned the dying embers. Suddenly there was a series of gentle little patters on the dead leaves just outside the circle of light. Would he awaken Mr. Allen, or would he watch by himself. Hardly had the thought entered his head when, without a sound, and without being conscious that another was watching, Mr. Allen slowly arose to a sitting posture and stared out into the forest in the same direction.
"What is it, Mr. Allen?" softly whispered Willis. Mr. Allen jumped a trifle. "O, I don't know; I heard it a couple of hours ago. I'd like to see a wild animal, wouldn't you? I think it must be the fire that attracts it. I'd like to light my dark lantern, but I hate to strike a match." He leaned over to the fire, picked up a dry pine needle, and lighted it in the fire, applying the tiny flame to his opened lantern. Quietly Mr. Allen opened the shield, and a long, bright gleam swept noiselessly out into the darkness, revealing with almost painful distinctness the outlines of every stem of grass and flower. Then, far at the end of the path of light, something moved. There were two small, luminous spots, then in an instant two more, a little larger. Slowly the shifting lights and shadows took shape, and there, before them, stood two deer—a doe and a tiny fawn.