"Give it to me, Blenksoe! Of what use is my life to you?"
"Lucky you've been afore, and lucky you may be yet, and when the luck turns I'm in it, see?"
"Give it to me!" With a madman's fury, Durant leaped at the other's throat, only to be met by a blow that sent him reeling to the ground with such force that a young willow bush he clutched at was partially uprooted. For a few seconds he lay prone, foaming at the mouth and clawing the soil with frenzied impotency. Then of a sudden he paused, raised himself, face still downturned, and burst into insane laughter that made Pierce's blood run cold.
"Mad! Stark, starin' mad!" Blenksoe turned on his heel.
"There's a squirrel on yonder tree I could bring down for the dogs' supper if you'd give me back my gun, Blenksoe," his laughter spent, Durant meekly suggested as he scrambled to a sitting posture.
"Fetch her with a stun," was the succinct reply, as, retaining his partner's weapon, Blenksoe re-entered the tent.
Acting on the suggestion, Durant gathered up a handful of clots, selecting them carefully, and with deliberate aim took long shots at the chattering creature on the bough.
"Sit here, beside me, close, Walter," in an undertone he bade the young clerk, who still was gazing at him in horrified bewilderment. "But don't start or show the slightest surprise at what I am going to say. Oh, tut, tut, lad, never fear!" For Pierce seemed disinclined to comply with his command. "I am not mad. That is all over, thank God! with all the struggle, the heartbreak. The luck has turned, do you hear? Yes, turned for good and all! Every clot that I am throwing contains gold!—careful!" For involuntarily Walter had given vent to an ejaculation of amazed incredulity. "Oh, I'm an old prospector, and I see indications, and read signs where these grafters pass them by. I've always believed in this locality, and now I'm justified. In uprooting that willow I unearthed a bonanza!" Pausing in his speech, he renewed his attempts on the squirrel's life, and then went on: "Yes, each dull handful of earth I throw is a priceless witness that beneath us, on this spot, lies the Rainbow Mine——" Breaking off, as he observed old Blenksoe watching him narrowly, he rose as if discouraged, with a sigh. "My hand shakes. I'm no match to-day even for a squirrel. I'll have to give it up." Then, cleverly simulating the foolishly detailed actions of one who, having lost his grasp on the great things of life, clutches at the trivialities, he set about replanting the willow, stamping down the disordered earth about its roots, meanwhile in a pregnant undertone continuing his conversation with Walter.
The latter, so between them it was arranged, was to hang about the locality, watching for a chance, unobserved, to pick up the valuable clots, and these he was to have exchanged for their cash value, for current expenses, at a bank so distant that their source could not be predicated with any degree of accuracy—a precaution that Durant deemed essential in a district where even officialdom was likely to be corrupted by the lust for gold. He himself, meanwhile, would watch his opportunity, and disappear, without leaving a trace, from Lost Shoe Creek, as if madness had indeed possessed him, in order to throw Blenksoe off the scent and cause him also to move on, since, as Durant rightly conjectured, the pastmaster of graft would not be likely to remain in any spot which he thought Lucky had turned down. To-day Walter was to meet him here, return with him to the scene of his discovery, aid him in staking it, by stealth; journey to the nearest office where recording-books were opened, to file the claim with the necessary fee, while Durant himself would remain, defending the stakes, if need be, with his life. Once his rights legally safeguarded, all the world might know. Again Durant laughed in joyful anticipation of his meeting with Evelyn, when confession and revelation would come in the same breath. Then, impatiently, he looked up and down the trail, wondering at Pierce's delay on this day of days, when he heard a low moan among the bushes, and, turning, beheld the young man on whose co-operation such high hopes depended, lying, bedded in furs, upon a sled, swathed in bandages, pallid—a dying man.
"My God! Walter, my poor lad, what does this mean?" exclaimed Durant, in horrified accents.