Memory was stirring. Other scenes and other times had come back to him. He remembered his early days on the McKenzie. He remembered the tar-sands which were common enough along its almost illimitable course. He remembered the queer of it. How the precious liquid tar oozed up through the sand and settled into great pools. He remembered the curious jets of gas which spouted through the sand, and how they used to set fire to them, and cook by the flame, and heat the tar with which they smeared the bottoms of their light kyaks. He remembered how the Indians and Breeds did the same thing, and had done so throughout the centuries. The thing which chance had now found for them was something of the same. Here was a valley whose heart was flooded with coal tar and oil. Oil? To judge by the signs all down the length of the valley they had so far traversed, there should be supplies of oil sufficient for the world’s needs for years. The secret of the habitation which his comrades had gone to reconnoitre was no longer a secret in his estimation. Somewhere along this creek must be commercial workings of the precious material with which he judged the region to be flooded. Who? Who? His mind groped along every channel for an explanation. Whiteman? Perhaps. Euralian? He left his final question without an answer.
“’St!”
Mike laid a detaining hand on the arm of Wilder. They were moving cautiously through the woods skirting the clearing in which the great, sprawling, log-built house stood.
“What is it?”
Wilder had halted in response to the Irishman’s gesture, and whispered back his inquiry with some impatience.
“Someone behind us.” The eyes of the other were searching amongst the trees and undergrowth through which they had just passed. “Guess the bush broke twice. It’s no sort of fancy. Ther’s someone—”
He broke off listening, and Wilder distinctly recognised the faint snapping of brushwood somewhere away in rear of them.
They waited. But as no further sound was forthcoming Wilder shrugged his shoulders and nodded in the direction of the clearing.
“Guess we can’t worry with that,” he said, his eyes regarding the pile of buildings upon which the sunlight was pouring. “There’s not a soul around that house anyway, so far as I can see. Guess there isn’t even a cur dog. We best quit this wood, and make a break for it. We got to know who lives there. And it don’t much matter how they take our visit. You got your guns fixed right?”