He broke off suddenly, sitting lurched forward, his eyes meditatively upon the fire. Then he continued:
“A man that didn’t know would think it was all nonsense. But most men that live in the way-out places of the earth, and who’ve took men off, fair and square—or with a knife from behind; it makes no difference—would know what I know. I don’t know the why, pardner. And I don’t care why. You’ll be looking for a new side-kick before Summer dies.”
Dick stirred uneasily. Again he sought for a light, bantering reply. But the words did not come. A strange sense of fatality had crept slowly over him.
He tried to tell himself that he was listening to the expression of an old miner’s superstition, that the thing was an absurdity. And while he refused to give credence to a thing which he could not understand, he had an odd sense that he and Johnny Watson were not alone. Unconsciously he drew a bit closer to the fire and to the man who was “seeing things.”
“And this here the likeliest trail I ever set foot down on,” said the older man, with nothing but a vague regret in the even tones. “Just two more days and we’re there—maybe together and maybe you finish the trail alone, pardner. It’s a month ago I picked up that first big yellow lump. The whole mountainside is rotten with gold! And then I come back and picked you up like we’d said we would, you wearing your shoes out on flinty rocks where a man wouldn’t find a color in seven lifetime. And now we’re in two days of it, and——”
He didn’t finish, breaking off with a long-drawn, deep breath. His pipe had gone out and he leaned forward, picking up a blazing bit of dry pine which he held to the blackened bowl. Dick Farley noticed that the bronzed, lined face was very calm, the eyes somewhat wider opened than usual, the fingers upon the fagot as steady as should be the fingers of a man without nerves.
“Johnny—” Farley was speaking at last, with an effort, keeping his tones as steady as his partner’s—“you are right when you say that there are some things which we can’t explain. But it’s up to us to explain what we can, isn’t it? You haven’t thought of those men for a long time, and now they flash up before you all of a sudden, and clear. Can’t it be that I have happened to use some expression that Ben used, or that some sound from the woods about us, or some smell or even an odd color in the sunset——”
“That’s like you, Dickie. Fight until you’re in the last ditch, and then go on fighting!” Watson shook his head. “No, that ain’t the right explanation this trip. I’ve seen them three men today. I’ve seen Flash DeVine jerk up his head with a little funny sort of twist to the left like he always used to, and I’ve seen the red spot by Parker’s ear. I’d clean forgot them little things, Dick. No, pard’. There’s no use trying to explain. I got to thinking about it this noon while you was staking out the horses, and I made a little drawing you can use if I pass out before we get to the place. It’s on a cigareet paper, and I poked it inside old Shaggy’s saddle-blanket. And now, boy—” standing up, his shoulders lifted and squared—“good night. If it happens I don’t see you any more——”
He put out his hand suddenly. Young Dick Farley gulped down a lump in his throat as he gripped Johnny Watson’s fingers. For a moment they stared into each other’s eyes—then Watson turned away abruptly and with no other word went to his blankets.