Britton was loath to give up so near the goal when his expectations were so summarily scattered.
"It's only a mile to the new camp," he said. "I think I'll go on and have a look. One never can tell what may turn up."
Larry Marsh shouldered his pack-sack again.
"All right," he grunted. "Where you goin', McDonald?"
"South o' Le Barge," the Scotchman answered. "I had a trace there before I cam' awa' on this fool trip."
"I'm with you," cried Marsh, "and we'll follow it to the end." To Britton he added: "Come with us, and we'll put you in right if anything goes!"
The idea seemed vague and forlorn, and Rex shook his head.
"I'll glance over the Forks anyway," he decided.
They took the back-trail, and he tramped on. A week at Forty Forks was convincing enough! He returned to Tagish Post, a very downhearted man, and the first person he saw was the Government courier, Franco Lessari, whom he had pulled out of Lake Bennett.
"I ask much thanks–for you, much thanks," the Corsican greeted with a new show of gratitude. "For your kind heart I repay–so little. Listen! Far up Samson Creek, I tell you for go on the north branch. Look there for gold!"