Calvert’s eyes twinkled. “The same thing that brought you—stories of unlimited treasure. When I heard them I left my few machines—they were not working well, and humbly craved the autocratic president of the Day Spring mine’s permission to join this expedition. The Day Spring was not prospering in such a degree that we could afford to ignore the rumors—eh, Geoffrey?”
“You may put it so,” said Ormond quietly. “But Colonel Carrington is your acknowledged chief, and you owe him due respect.”
“Well,” the narrator continued, “we came up, six sanguine men and one despondent mule, which showed its wisdom by breaking its tether and deserting. I gather that these expeditions are generally rough on cattle. Then we lost our way, and, provisions growing scanty, divided the party, three returning and three holding on, Geoffrey and I, unfortunately, among the latter. We got lost worse than ever on the return journey, and were steering south, we hoped, at the last gasp, so to speak, when we found you. That’s about all, but, if it’s a fair question, did you find any sign of gold?”
“Not a sign,” I answered.
“Yours was a triple combination,” Ormond said. “Where’s your cheerful partner; I liked him. Ah, excuse an unfortunate question—a difference of opinion most probably?”
“No,” I answered. “We never had a difference of opinion since poor Johnston joined us. He lies somewhere 270 in a nameless river—we lost him crossing a treacherous ford two days ago.”
Ormond looked startled for a moment, then he bent his head and answered with a kindly glance toward me: “He was a good comrade, and you have my deep sympathy. May I say that sometimes I fancied your friend could tell a painful story, and in endeavoring to forget it made the most of the present.”
“You are probably right,” said Harry. “He hinted as much, but no one will learn that story now. He took his secret with him, and the river guards it.”
“It’s an old tale,” said Ormond gravely. “The way into this country was opened by the nameless unfortunate. After all, where could a man rest better than among the ranges through which he had found a pathway. Are not these dark pines grander than any monument? Poor Johnston! Lorimer, I wonder, if we knew all, whether we should pity him?”
His face grew somber as he spoke, but it was Ormond who presently dissipated the gloom by a humorous narrative of the doings of the vanished mule, after which we went to sleep again. A pale blink of sunshine shone down when we started south the next day, for we had agreed to march in company, but the weary leagues lengthened indefinitely, and there was still no sign of the eagerly expected trail leading to Macdonald’s Crossing, until, when we almost despaired of finding it, one of the party assured us that we should reach it before the second nightfall. During the morning Ormond and I lagged behind the others as we wound with much precaution along the sides of an almost precipitous descent. He limped from some small injury to his foot, made worse by exposure, and as it happened a passing mention of Colonel Carrington stirred up the old bitterness.