Eventually they rounded a bluff on to a cabin nestling at the mouth of a dark valley. Near it men were working with a windlass, so, stumbling to them, they spoke huskily.
"Sorry we 'ain't got room inside," the stranger replied, "but three of the boys is down with scurvy, and we're all cramped up. Plenty more folks coming, I s'pose, eh?"
The two had sunk on to the wet ground and did not answer. Buck fell with his pack still on, utterly lost, and the miner was forced to drag the bundle from his shoulders. As he rolled him up he was sleeping heavily.
Crowley awakened while the sun was still golden; his joints aching excruciatingly. They had slept four hours. He boiled tea on the miners' stove and fried a pan of salt pork, but was too tired to prepare anything else, so they drank the warm bacon-grease clear with their tea.
As Buck strove to arise, his limbs gave way weakly, so that he fell, and it took him many moments to recover their use.
"Where's the best chance, pardner?" they inquired of the men on the dump.
"Well, there ain't none very close by. We've got things pretty well covered."
"How's that? There's only six of you; you can't hold but six claims, besides discovery."
"Oh yes, we can! We've got powers of attorney; got 'em last fall in St. Michael; got 'em recorded, too."
Crowley's sunken eyes blazed.