At that he began fumbling at an inside coat pocket. In the end he drew forth a small square packet. Having unrolled a wad of thin oiled cloth, he unfolded a square of soft white skin. On this, done perhaps in pencil and later traced with India ink, were many lines and strangely shaped figures. Here and there words were written.
Drawn involuntarily to his side, the boy and girl stared at the map with surprised and eager eyes.
Johnny read words written there: “The river,” “Mountains,” “The Pass,” “The cabin,” he read. And last, but not least, “Green Gold.”
Apparently quite unconscious of their presence, the old man placed a trembling finger on a certain spot and mumbled:
“We are here. The trail leads downstream, four miles perhaps. The river forks there. We cross the river below the fork, and ascend the upper fork. The trail leads over the mountains. The cabin lies beyond the mountain, the cabin and green gold. A mine of green gold. That was Timmie’s dream. But then, perhaps he was mad. But there was green gold, quantities of it, and so heavy, so—”
He looked up and for the first time became conscious of Faye and Johnny.
“We’ve found the tree,” he said simply, as if they should know all about it. “The trail leads downstream a little way, then across the river.”
By the haunted look in her eyes, Johnny read that Faye Duncan knew little regarding the strange turn affairs had taken.
“It’s his heart,” she whispered. “We must keep him quiet.”
“Yes,” she said to Gordon Duncan, “the trail leads downstream. We will take it to-morrow. For the night we will camp beneath this friendly old giant of a tree and rest.”