Chilcoot was standing over the box and its contents were littered about him on the ground. He was peering into a rusted tin box, stirring the contents with a knotted forefinger.
“Dust,” he replied laconically. But his tone was tense.
Bill came quickly to his side and together they gazed down at the loose yellow stuff that shone dully against the red rust with which the years had corroded the tin containing it. In spite of their years, their wealth, the sight of the precious metal held them fascinated, and stirred emotions deeply. It was a generous sample weighing several ounces, and amongst it were two or three nuggets the size of well-grown peas. Chilcoot picked out the largest and held it up for his companion’s inspection.
Wilder nodded, but his eyes were shining.
“Sure,” he said. Then he turned away. “Set it aside, old friend,” he went on, “an’ let’s get outside. We need to talk.”
The sky was drearily overcast, and the walls of the canyon further helped to overshadow the world about them. The two men were lounging on the bare gravel which formed the bed of the creek. Wilder had his back propped against the crazy shanty they had just explored.
Chilcoot folded up the paper which the other had passed him for examination. It was the plan of Marty Le Gros’ gold “strike,” and it was the first time since it had come into Wilder’s possession that other eyes than his had been permitted to gaze upon it.
The older man returned it without comment, but his deepset grey eyes were expressive. There was puzzlement in them. There was something else. They had narrowed curiously. And the hard lines of his weatherbeaten face were a shade more hardly set.
Wilder returned the map to the bosom of his buckskin parka. He flaked some tobacco from a plug with his sheath knife and lit his pipe. He ignored his companion’s mood, although perfectly aware of it.