Once more the beloved wanderer prodded the fire. As he did so a dramatic look of gray despair overspread his face.
“I slept well that night. Awakened sometime before dawn by the dull roar of thunder, I looked out on a world of inky blackness.
“‘Going to rain,’ I thought. Then I crawled back between the blankets.
“Not for long. To the occasional roar of thunder was added a more terrifying sound. An endless, ever increasing roar came echoing down the canyon.
“Knowing its meaning, I wrenched my cabin door from its hinges, and then awaited the worst.
“I had not long to wait. As if by magic I felt my door, my life saving raft, lifted beneath me by a raging torrent and go spinning round and round. We were on our way, riding the flood of a cloudburst.
“Well—” He paused to reflect. “I landed in a fellow’s cornfield. He wanted to charge me for the corn my raft broke down. I wouldn’t stand for that, so I went down to Denver and joined a troupe that was playing Ten Nights in a Bar Room. For a man that never drank, I claim I had a pretty good line.”
“But that gold?” put in Swen.
“Oh! The gold? Sure. Yes, the gold!” For a moment the old man seemed bewildered. Then a bright smile lighted his wrinkled face.
“Gold, my son, is heavy. That flood moved half the mountainside. And when it was over, where was my golden boulder? At the bottom of it all, to be sure.”