They saw approaching a man riding a mule—a man who looked to be a typical prospector or miner. Hung about him, fore and aft on the saddle was a collection of implements and camp stuff—a kettle, frying pan, shovel, pick and a roll of what might be a pup tent and bedding.
“Good afternoon, strangers,” greeted the prospector, pleasantly.
Mr. Campbell returned the salutation and asked:
“Do you know where a Mr. Belmont has a camp around here? A Mr. Toddingham Belmont?”
“Toddingham Belmont,” repeated the prospector in puzzled accents.
“Uncle Tod I call him,” said Rick.
“Oh, him—Uncle Tod! Yes, yes! Now I know who you mean! Uncle Tod, oh, yes!” and he laughed. “His camp’s about a mile beyond that lone pine,” he said, pointing up the trail. “He and Sam Rockford are there—if you want to find them,” he added after a significant pause.
“Why shouldn’t we want to find them?” asked Mr. Campbell, struck by a queer expression on the prospector’s face. “We have come a long way to locate them—at least these boys have.”
“Oh, all right. It’s none of my business,” said the other quickly. “Of course if you want to throw in with a couple of—crazy loons—why, that’s your affair—not mine.”
“Crazy loons!” exclaimed Mr. Campbell, “what do you mean?”