“That just gives us time for a cup of coffee.” Sandy smiled a broad smile. “What do you say we have it now?”
They were an interesting group. Sandy, cumbersome, hearty, powerful even in his old age, ever a prospector, never very prosperous, he had wended his long way across the world always in a valley of golden dreams. Scott Ramsey, blonde-haired and still youthful, with an air of business about him, seemed to say with every move: “This is an adventure, but it must be more. It must be a financial success.” And so it must. He had led Sandy to invest his all, a tidy little cabin in Edmonton and a wee bank account, in this venture.
Johnny Thompson had been included in the party because of his familiarity with the North. He it was who selected and managed dog teams, built camps and purchased supplies. Joe Lee, the silent, soft-footed Chinaman, was the cook. Johnny was all else that goes toward making a prospector’s camp a place that may be called “Home.”
So, satisfied with their lot, glorying in the abundant health God had given them, dreaming golden dreams of the morrow, they sat down to their meal of pilot biscuits, caribou steak, potatoes, pie and coffee with the feeling that the world was theirs for the asking.
One question troubled Johnny a little: the affair of the afternoon, his talk with Joyce Mills. Should he tell his companions of it?
After due consideration, he decided to keep silent. “Who knows but we may have made our great strike?” he reasoned to himself. “Pitchblende, radium. Who knows? If we win, if they lose, nothing will come of it.”
Then a thought struck him. This was to be a race for treasure. Who would win that race? Sandy and his group, or the others? Only time would tell.
“We must do our best.” He spoke aloud without really meaning to.
“Yes indeed!” agreed Sandy heartily. “So we must, son. And so we will!”
* * * * * * * *