The prospector stared at her. “I said they lost the mine, never found it again. Nolan died.”
“And Tom Kennedy, he—”
“He’s alive, far as I know. He’s always hunting that mine. Never found it yet. But then,” the old man sighed, “there’s plenty of us like that up here where the sun forgets to set in summer. Gets in your blood.
“Well,” he put out a hand, “I’ll get my burros started. I—I’ll be goin’,” his voice was rich and mellow with years. “I shall not forget you. And when I strike it rich—” he hesitated, then smiled a smile that was like the sunset, “I’ll trade you gold and diamonds for raised biscuits and sweet butter.” He stared for a moment, as if seeing a vision of the past, then bowed himself out. He was gone. Bill went with him. How far he would go the girl could only guess.
Left alone with her thoughts, Florence found herself wondering about many things. Was there truly no market for the things they raised? As the months and years rolled on, would there still be no market? Fairbanks, a small city to the north of them, was in need of many kinds of food. Could they not supply some of these needs?
Then, of a sudden, she recalled Mark’s words, “Tomatoes. Bushels and bushels of tomatoes.” Why had he insisted, why repeated this word, even after Mrs. Swenson had said, “no tomatoes”? Mark had something in mind. What was it? She could not guess, but dared hope.
She recalled Mrs. Swenson’s words about the mysterious pair that had, with so much labor, erected this cabin, cleared this land, then left it all. “I wonder why they left?”
Then, “Seven golden candlesticks,” she murmured, “and a great copper kettle. We could use that kettle.” After that, in spite of her desire to be practical, she found herself searching the place from foundation to the loft. All she found was an ancient Dutch oven, rusted beyond reclaiming.
“All the same,” she thought, “it is strange what became of that copper kettle and—“ She did not allow the thought to finish itself. She had been about to think “gold.” She knew that in this land one must not dream—at least, not too much.