"The ledge! The hidden ledge! It's all mine now, yes, mine, mine!" and he hugged himself in his greedy, guilty joy.
"To-morrow I'll sell the grub and backtrack to the coast to guard it."
The storm died away and the cold, bright moon shone searchingly. The man lay down in the boat to rest, pulling his furs and tarpaulin over him.
Sleep did not immediately come at his bidding. He saw and heard affrighting things. The rush and roar of the elements—two hands flashing out of the ink-black water—the cry of horror—but he wanted to forget, and at last, in spite of all, he slept.
An Indian guide trudged heavily up the long trail toward the summit. He was closely followed by a white man and both were headed southward. The guide carried a heavy pack on his back, but the white man was "traveling light."
When night came they camped and rested; amusing themselves for a while with a poker game. Black bottles kept them company. At last trouble arose over the cards. Smithson had indiscreetly allowed his guide a glimpse of his money belt, and though the white man was well armed, in a moment of forgetfulness he allowed the native to pass behind him; when a sudden shot and thud upon the ground quickly settled forever all scores between them.
An Indian seldom smiles.
This one smiled gloomily now; muttering as he wiped the revolver in his hand:
"Him bad white man yesterday,—good man now,—heap long time sleep."