A sigh of satisfaction escaped him. The sign of clemency he was seeking was there in the perfect cloudlessness. The whole breadth of the sky was a brilliant azure. And, furthermore, the critical moment of slack water had arrived. Now he knew that the hill squalls intended to remain quiescent, and he swung his craft clear of the frowning granite cliffs for the deep waters.
The man’s pale eyes were no longer watchful. There was no longer any need. With a great depth of water under his canoe he could drive her leisurely, awaiting the coming flood from the ocean far behind.
Cy Liskard was lounging in the doorway of his cabin. He was smoking contemplatively while his pale eyes gazed out over the gravelly, trickling creek below him. Near by, secured to a tying post, which was the stump of a sapling spruce, two Alaskan ponies were waiting ready for the long trail into Beacon Glory. One was saddled and bridled, the other was carrying a well-laden pack. Both were sturdy, powerful creatures still clad in their long winter coats.
It was a still, warm day, with the air full of the hum of the insect world. The long tails of the horses were swishing with flail-like force to keep the attacking mosquitoes and flies at bay. For the moment the sun was lost behind frothing summer clouds, while below, the dense forests were silent and still with that profound hush which is their prevailing mood.
It was a perfect scene, typical of the greater foothills where Nature permits nothing human to disturb her hush. On every hand hills rose to immense heights, bald of head, but densely clad on their lower slopes with forests of every shade of green. Soft, and gracious, and pleasant to gaze upon, the forests were deep, and dark, and well-nigh illimitable. They were full of preying animal life, and even in the full of daylight the howl of coyote and the harsher bay of prowling timber wolf came echoing down the aisles of leafless trunks.
But Cy Liskard was all unconcerned for Nature’s sounds, for Nature’s moods. He was by no means condemned to a lifelong existence in the world’s dark places. He was there by selection and of deliberate purpose, and his purpose appeared fairly obvious. For there, below him, on the trickling creek, lay the complete, primitive equipment of the gold-seeker’s craft.
But for all his expressionless gaze was upon these things his thought was far away, concerned only with its contemplation of the thing which lay ahead at the end of the further journey upon which he was about to embark. As with all the hardy creatures who seek treasure in the remotenesses of the northern world, the joy of return to the cities of men was a passionate yearning that had no limits.
In the two weeks since his return from the mouth of the Lias River his preparations had been completed, and they were more considerable than might have been supposed to be necessary. This was his home for the time. This was his hunting ground. It was an uncharted, unregistered gold prospect, and as such it was open to invasion or any chance discovery that might completely rob him of any proprietary rights he might claim. So his preparations had been made carefully and in a fashion best calculated to safeguard his interests.