“It was while I was in Spanish Honduras, in the Mosquito Indian’s country,” he went on, “I met the fellow I told these lads about. He was lookin’ for gold, and there was supposed to be a gold mountain inland, but the Indians in the interior was too dangerous for us to risk gettin’ in. Well, finally, we decided to give up hunting for any mine there—at least, I did. I was down on the coast, near the sand point at Brower’s Lagoon when a sailing sloop came in over the reef one day, and when I found out they needed a hand, I shipped on her and left—this other fellow—inland, still bound he would some time locate that mine or mountain of gold and claim it.”
He explained to the interested quartet that he went into so much detail because it all had something to do with the later part of his yarn. They nodded and did not interrupt him once.
“This—other fellow—had made great friends with an old Indian, up river—oh, quite a ways up the Rio Patuca. This old Indian must have lived for centuries. ’Cause why? ’Cause he knew legends and history that his own tribe had forgot: and he knew medicines and herbs, the same as the oldest of the other medicine men couldn’t even remember. And Be—this other fellow—had got real close in his confidence and said this old Toosa—that was his name—would show him a way to find the golden mountain, so I left him there.”
He skipped quickly over the following years until the time, about six years before, when he had found himself in Mexico and, hearing of some rich mines in the sierras, had eventually reached and found employment at the mine which, in its prosperity, was called the Great Hope, but which, since, had degenerated in value until it was jokingly styled the Dead Hope.
“But whenever I get in civilized places where there is drink,” Henry continued, “I can’t do nothin’ for myself. ’Cause why? ’Cause it gets me and holds me and drags me down.” He made a gesture of rueful resignation. Then, rolling a fresh cigarette, he began to bring his story into the matters which most intensely gripped the imaginations of the chums.
“I was made assistant to the super’,” he told them, “but it wasn’t long before I got so bad and so low that they kicked me out. Well, I was sore about it and made up my mind to get even. But I didn’t. ’Cause why? Well, I struck up with B—with this other fellow, again.”
Whoever this man with the name he so mysteriously withheld might be, he was evidently of the same general type as Henry. The latter met him, he said, in a “dive” in Mexico City, and in a ribald fit of liquor stupor the friend had gabbled and raved and ranted about finding “the Golden Sun!”
“That was what we had decided we’d name our mountain, when we found it,” Henry explained. “So I was all excited. But he was too far gone to tell me anything I could pin onto. Then I got mad at him and started a fight and——” he pointed to his scarred face, “this is my souvenir! It laid me up in a dinky hospital for weeks.”
When, without money, weak and rather sobered in mind as well as physically, he came out of the hospital, Henry Morgan decided to drift back to the mine, see if he could be reinstated, and live a better life, he told the chums.
“I do not like to interrupt,” began Mr. Gray, “but I fail to see——”