The idea struck me too, but I set it triumphantly aside directly.
“If it were Mr Gunson there would be a fire, and most likely Quong keeping watch. Besides, we don’t know that he had a tent like that.”
“No, he hadn’t got a tent,” assented Esau; and we went on, to find that at every quarter of a mile there was a tent or a fire; and it soon became evident that the solitary little valley we had explored on the day of my accident was rapidly getting to hold a population of its own.
We had passed several of these busy encampments, and were beginning to despair of finding Mr Gunson, when, as nearly as we could guess in the darkness, just about where we washed the gold, we came upon a fire, whose warm yellow glow lit up a huge pine, and at the scene before us we stopped to reconnoitre.
“That’s where I was cutting the tree,” muttered Esau; “and—yes, there’s old Quong. Look!”
Sure enough there was the yellow-faced, quaint little fellow coming out of the darkness into the light to bend down and carefully lay some fresh wood upon the fire, after which he slowly began to walk back.
Mr Gunson must be here, I thought, for Quong would naturally be drawn to him as a strong man who would protect him.
“Come along,” I said; “we are right after all.”
“No, no, stop!” he cried, seizing me and holding me back, for Quong evidently heard our voices, and darted back among the trees.
“Nonsense,” I said, struggling.