It was to such a scene of grand and wild awesomeness that the three chums turned smarting eyes, one icy morning, as they emerged from their tent.
Beyond their camp a great pair of twin peaks reared snowy crests into the golden light of dawn. Through the dip between those peaks ran the snowy pass marked in the map. They could see part of it already, from their camp in the slightly depressed space they had chosen in which to avoid as much wind sweep as possible. It was a gorgeous sight. Jagged rock, glistening white blankets of virgin snow, fire-lit at the peaks by the approaching sunbeams, deep clefts diving into pitchy darkness, made a sight they could never forget.
“But look!” said Nicky, first to get his fill of Nature’s marvels, “There aren’t any Indians!”
“Good gravy!” agreed Tom with his favorite exclamation. “You’re right. Where—? Oh, Bill! Say, Bill!” He and the others raced toward the figure sitting composedly by a roaring dry-alcohol stove over whose wind-fanned blaze he was heating coffee. Mr. Whitley emerged from his tent, shivering, and joined them.
“What has happened?” he inquired.
“Just what I expected,” Bill said. “The gay Spanish Don has taken his natives and gone on alone.”
“Deserted us!” cried Mr. Whitley.
“Deserted his first love for gold!” grinned Bill. “Yep! I guessed he would, just about here.”
The chums looked at him in dismay.
“Oh, he left all our supplies,” Bill assured them. “Everything is intact. That’s why I let him go.”