Truman Rodgers strode to his side, and took him almost fiercely by the arm. “Is that so?” he demanded, his voice hoarse with emotion.
The four men looked at him in mute surprise.
“Is that so?” he repeated. “Do they say where it was found?” he released his hold on the captain's arm, and rested limply against the bar.
“At Sutter's Fort, on the American River,” said Stephen Landray, slowly.
The effect on the Californian was electrical. He threw out his arms despairingly in a single gesture of tragic renunciation. “I'm too late again, my luck every time—damn them! Damn them! Why couldn't they keep still! the fools!”
“And why should they keep still?” demanded Gibbs toying with his empty glass.
“Why should they?” furiously. “What chance will there be now for the men who went into the country first—what chance will there be for me?” Again he threw out his arms, he seemed to put from him all hope; his mouth was bitter with the very taste of his words.
“You'll have as good a chance as any,” retorted Gibbs, still toying with his glass. “And, pardon me, you're a fool to expect more than that.”
“If what the Eastern papers say is true, there will be gold enough for all who are likely to go in search of it,” interrupted Bushrod Landray, good-naturedly. “You are Truman Rogers?”
Rogers nodded dully.