With a snort Dave’s horse wheeled and galloped away up the cañon. The sound of his going frightened the prospector. He ceased to laugh, and cowered in his saddle, looking fearfully about him into the dim swirl of the snow.
“Who’s that?” he called.
The deadly silence was unbroken. The old man shook his fist in the air and again broke into his frightful cursing.
“I ain’t afraid!” he yelled. “Damn you. I ain’t afraid! You’re all dead. You’re dead, there; French Pete’s dead, Sucatash Wallace’s dead, Panamint’s dead. But old Jim’s alive! Old Jim’ll find it. You bet you he will!”
He bent his head and appeared to listen again. Then:
“What’s that? Who’s singin’?”
He fell to muttering again, quoting doggerel, whined out in an approach to a tune: “Louisiana—Louisiana Lou!”
“Louisiana’s dead!” he chuckled. “If he aint he better not come back. The gal’s a-waitin’ fer him. Louisiana what killed her pappy! Ha, ha! Louisiana killed French Pete!” 221
He turned his horse and slowly, still muttering, began to haze his burros back down the cañon.
“Old Jim’s smart,” he declaimed. “All same like an Injun, old Jim is! Come a-sneakin’ up past the camp there and the gal never knew I was nigh. Went a-sneakin’ past and seen his tracks goin’ up the cañon. Just creeps along and rides up on him and now he’s dead! All dead but the gal and old Jim! Old Jim don’t die. The gal’ll die, but not old Jim! She’ll tell old Jim what she knows and then old Jim will find the gold.”