His voice broke off sharply, and he turned his back to it all. Dick heard him move back down to the trail. With his eyes filled with the panorama below him Dick’s thoughts drew back from the trail and the ore at the end of it and followed the man who had found the thing, the precious thing which they had so long sought, and who had turned back for his partner that he, too, might have his share.
And again he told himself that his fears of last night, which had been growing all day, were groundless, senseless—that Johnny Watson could not be in danger of death.
CHAPTER III
FARLEY MAKES A VOW
Before he climbed down the way Watson had gone, Dick Farley again turned his eyes along the trail which was to lead him tomorrow to the Cup of Gold. His wandering fancies built a golden dream future. Then he turned back and climbed slowly down to the trail.
The fire was dying upon the little rocky ledge where he had built it an hour ago. Beyond the camp-fire, where he had flung his blanket at the base of the cliff, Johnny Watson was already lying. Farley swept up his own blanket from the ground and, stepping around the fire, flung it down close to Watson’s.
“I don’t believe in your premonitions, pardner,” he said with a little laugh. “But if they get one of us they’ll have to take two. Here’s where I pitch my tent.”
Johnny Watson made no answer. He was already asleep. Johnny never wasted time in wakefulness when he had turned in.
Farley straightened out his blankets, jerked off his heavy boots and socks and lay down, his elbow close to Watson’s. And so he went to sleep.
Something awoke him; it might have been the moon, shining full in his face. He rolled over upon his side, shifted his wide-brimmed hat to shield his face from the light, and still he did not go back to sleep. He felt restless, uneasy—inexplicably uneasy. Those confounded things Johnny had said last night wouldn’t leave him. There was no sound; not a ripple upon the surface of the night’s silence save the murmur and trickle of the water. He should be able to hear the horses—the chain on old Shaggy’s halter.
He sat up. Doing so, he put his right hand on the ground beside him, beside Johnny Watson. He felt something damp, spongy, and sticky. He lifted his hand, staring at it in the moonlight. There was a dark stain. He put it to his nostrils.