“Yes,” he said finally in a low voice of conviction, “this at last is the lost find!”
And he sank down on the gold-strewn pebbly sandbar, limp and helpless, completely overcome.
A minute later he had recovered his composure. He stood erect He gazed down the valley. The startled herd of deer had vanished into the brushwood and low timber.
But there, slowly ascending along the river bed, was the figure of Buell Hampton. Roderick stood stockstill, lost in amazement, waiting.
CHAPTER XXXII.—STAKING THE CLAIMS
SO IT is you who have found my Hidden Valley,” said Buell Hampton as he drew near. His voice had a regretful ring, but as he grasped Roderick’s hand he added cordially: “I thank God it is you, Roderick. When I heard the rifle shots I was afraid it might be Bud Bledsoe or some of his gang.”
“Your hidden valley, Major?” murmured Roderick, interrogatively and with emphasis on the first word.
“Yes, my son—the valley from which I took the carload of rich ore we sold in Denver.”