"Hello, Iky," he shouted as they drew near. "What's wrong with ye? Are ye lost, or bughouse?"
The man addressed lifted his eyes and fixed them upon the trapper's face in a mute appeal, but made no reply.
"What's wrong with ye? Why don't ye speak?" insisted Dan.
"Sprained ankle—left behind," came the curt rejoinder.
"Is that so? Too bad, old chap. But yer headin' the wrong way. Ye'd better face about an' hike it into camp."
"No, no!" cried the other most vehemently. "I can't go back! The gold's over there! Jim Stebbins found it. He brought us word. This confounded sprain kept me back. But I'll get there. By God! I'll stake my claim yet! The boys won't get it all."
"But, man alive," replied Dan, "ye're not fit to travel. Ye'll fall on the trail. Ye'll starve. How fer are the others ahead? When did ye start?"
"This morning, and the boys are hiking like the devil."
The trapper stroked his long beard meditatively. He knew what a stampede meant, and the wild excitement which always ensued. No doubt the stampeders would return in a few days, find "Crusty" and take him back with them. He must let this man do the work he intended to do himself.