"I 'most hate to go on," said Tim, looking fiercely at Conroy, as he always did when anything disturbed him.
"Oh, my! I only hope they lost themselves somewhere," said Tom. "So let's hurry, Bob. I can hardly wait."
"Dive ahead for Gold Creek before worry stops our Tom from growin'," quoth Jack, with a strong effort to appear easy and unconcerned.
The bronchos' hoofs began kicking up the pine-needles and cones again. The sunlight cut curious streaks in the dim recesses of the gloomy woods, spotting trunks and boughs with its brilliant radiance.
As the Ramblers made their way in and out among the trees, a musical tinkle of running water came more clearly to their ears.
"I see it! I see it!" cried Tim, raising himself in his stirrups, and pointing excitedly.
A cool, silvery streak was showing between the trees.
"The thread that should have led us to fame and fortune," mused Dave Brandon.
"Gold Creek, fellows!"
Dick Travers was the first to reach the edge of the swiftly-running stream. The boys watched in silence the clear water tumbling down the steep descent, dashing briskly against rocks and snags, its never-ceasing roar rising high above the pulsating murmur of the pines.