“It’s mighty good to have you help me, but tain’t no use. I’ve staked my last claim and—listen!” Petersen roused himself, and a new light flashed into his eyes. “I must tell you, and I must do it quick. Reach in my pocket and take out the diary there. Hide it! Left hand po—pocket. That’s it.”
Elfreda hesitatingly drew forth a well-worn book, the corners of which were broken down and the leaves swollen from frequent thumbing.
“There’s something else there, too. Take that, too; it’s your’n.”
The Overland girl drew forth a small canvas bag, soiled and worn, and heavy. It was tied at the neck with a buckskin thong, and at his nod she opened the bag. She saw a handful of nuggets, some worn and shiny, water-worn as they proved to be, while at the bottom of the bag was some dust.
“Gold!” murmured Elfreda Briggs. “Is this why they shot you, Mr. Petersen?”
“Yes, and for what’s in that diary. Mebby you’ve heard of Lost Mine, a dried-up water course that the Indians say many years ago was paved with gold.”
Elfreda shook her head.
“Crazy prospectors like Sam Petersen have been hunting for that mine for more’n twenty-five years. Sam Petersen found it!” The man’s voice had dropped to a thrilling whisper. A dead silence followed, broken by the hoot of an owl near the cabin.
Elfreda shivered a little.
“It’s there in the book—all but how to get there. Hawk Murray and his gang found out that I’d got this bag of dust and nuggets. They knew I’d been prospecting for just what they’d been trying for a long time to find, and they believed I’d found it. Hawk and his bunch trailed me, and we had a shooting match. I downed one of the gang, but Hawk got me. Lady, I ain’t a bad man—I’m an honest man, but up here a man’s what he is, and if he ain’t able to shuffle for himself he’s all set to be shuffled off one day.”