“There is a story of such a mine.”
“Do many people come to look for it?”
Natachee answered gravely and with that dignity so characteristic of a red man, while his words, though spoken in English, were the words of an Indian:
“Too many people come. As the ocean calls the water of the rivers, and the rivers call the creeks and springs; so this story of a treasure hidden in a mine that is lost has called many people to the Cañon of Gold. For many years they have been coming—for many years they will continue to come. The white people say they do not believe there ever was such a mine and they laugh about it. They look for it just the same. Even the Pardners, who dig for gold in their own little hole down there, laugh, but I know that they, too, believe even as they laugh. That is always the white man’s way—always he is searching for the thing which he says does not exist, and at which he laughs.”
“But what about you?” asked Hugh Edwards. “Do you believe in this lost mine?”
The Indian’s face was a bronze mask as he answered:
“Of what importance is an Indian’s belief to a white man? When the winds heed the dead leaves they toss and scatter, when the fire heeds the dry grass in its path, then will a white man heed the words of an Indian.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say it was as bad as that,” returned Edwards easily, and as he spoke he went to bend over his pan again. “Mine or no mine,” he continued, as he examined the sand and gravel he had been washing, “I think I have some real gold here.”
When there was no answer he said:
“You must know gold when you see it. Will you look at this and tell me what you think?”