A pained, puzzled look came over the face of the aged recluse. “I do not know. I am growing old. When one is old he becomes afraid of many things.”
The hoard of green gold on Timmie’s raft was indeed a great treasure. Johnny, who had traveled much and knew the value of such things coming from a very remote past, reckoned their value in many thousands of dollars.
One day, two weeks later, having buried Timmie among the hills he had loved so long, bidding an affectionate farewell to their Indian guides and the strange hunchback, the party of three, Gordon Duncan, Faye and Johnny, put off from shore in a new dugout which their friends had made for them.
Three days later, as they drifted down the silent river which was now quite free from ice, to their great surprise they caught the distant drum of an airplane.
Straining their eyes, they saw it at last just clearing the mountains to the north. Imagine their surprise when it went out of sight behind the timber not five miles from where they were.
When, two hours later, on rounding a bend in the river, they sighted the camp of more than a hundred white men, their joy knew no bounds.
Soon enough they were told of a fresh gold strike on these upper reaches of the river. The passenger airplane which was bringing men into the country was to start on the return journey in two hours. It was nearing the lunch hour now. They might have dinner at the outskirts of the white man’s land if they liked.
Their decision was quickly reached. After a royal feast of white man’s food, they bundled their precious relics of green gold aboard the plane and, climbing in, sailed away.
A week later Johnny stood in the doorway of a cabin. Before the cabin yellow roses bloomed and the air was laden with the scent of spring blossoms.
Beside him stood Faye Duncan. No longer garbed in the dull brown and gray of the trail, but in a gay red dress, she was the picture of health and beauty.