The start was made, the little party striking right away into one or other of the lonely valleys running northward; but it was always the same—the gold was no more plentiful, and again and again they had ample proof that their enemy, who seemed to have a charmed life, was still following them.
Constant disappointment had been their portion, and a general feeling of being utterly worn out was dulling their efforts, when toward the close of a dreary day Tregelly exclaimed:
“Look here, my sons; I think we’ve seen the end of that red-headed ruffian at last.”
“I wish I could think so,” said Dallas.
“No,” said Abel; “we shall see him again. I feel that he’ll be the death of us all.”
“Bah! you’re in the dumps again,” said Tregelly. “I feel that we must have completely given the scoundrel the slip by our last move. I’m not one of your grumbling sort, am I?”
“No, Bob, no,” said Dallas sadly. “I envy you the calm patience and perseverance you possess.”
The Cornishman laughed.
“Did possess, my son. I did have a lot, but it’s all used up to the last scrap, and I’m regularly done.”
Abel looked at him in surprise, but Dallas seemed too dejected to notice anything, and sat forward, haggard and staring, with his eyes fixed upon their struggling fire.