“What’s the use,” said Joe. “This camp will never run again. Burnam hasn’t got the money for a whole new stilling outfit and fresh cups, and then to stand idle for weeks while it’s put in shape. No, he’ll close down inside of a week, I’ll bet.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Morris soberly. “I reckon I’d better be studying about a new job for myself. What do you reckon you’ll do? There’s plenty of other camps, you know.”
“Yes,” Joe evaded, “but I think I’ll go down and stop with my uncle for a little while. I’ve got money in this concern, you know, and I want to see what the chances are for getting any of it out.”
For some time the two young men discussed the different turpentine-camps of the district, the chances of employment, and the tendency of the turpentine market.
“Well, I’m going to bed,” Morris announced at last. “I’m dog-tired. I’ll see you in the morning before you leave. But I think you’d better see Burnam again before you do anything.”
He turned in, and was asleep in a few seconds; but Joe felt that he would not be able to close an eye, and did not even undress. The glow of the fire had gone; looking out, he could see the beds of red embers, already fading. The camp had quieted. A brilliant moon shone through the window; the smell of burned rosin and pine came strong from outdoors, and a mocking-bird began to sing in the moonlight just behind the house.
The whole camp was dead asleep after its exciting evening, but there was no rest in Joe’s heart. He was bitter at the thought of his lost inheritance, bitter at the way Burnam had rewarded his exertions. He had worked like a nigger, he told himself, only to be robbed at the end of it all. He hoped, indeed, to recover some of his loss from the rosin mine, but even this had a bitterness of its own. He had persuaded himself that he was acting rightly, but he could not suppress his dislike of anything underhand.
He was very tired, and at last he did sleep, not to awake until dawn. Morris still slept soundly; and without waking him Joe tiptoed downstairs. Nobody was yet up in the house, and, going to the kitchen he got a hasty cold breakfast for himself, and made up a large package of what food he could find—corn-bread, cooked ham, cold biscuits, and several raw eggs. He wanted provisions for one full day at least, and his board was paid for several days in advance. Later he could send word to have his trunk forwarded to him, and at some later day also he might draw his week’s wages. He had a little money on him—all he needed for the present.
The black ruins of the fire looked more dismal in the dawn as he went out. He hurried to the stable and gave Snowball a half-dozen ears of corn, probably the last feed from his hands. His rifle was still in its sheath on the saddle, and he secured it, knowing that there was an unopened box of cartridges in his pocket. The horse neighed softly and nuzzled Joe’s shoulder.
“Good-by, Snowball, old boy!” Joe whispered, and hurried out.