DURING the night a few flakes of snow had fallen—just the flurry of a storm that had come and tired and paused to rest awhile. The morning broke grey and sombre and intensely still; the mantle of white that covered the ground and clung to bushes and tree branches seemed to muffle every sound; the atmosphere was clear, but filled with brooding expectancy.
The three friends at the hunter’s hut were early astir. Roderick, despite the fact that fortune had at last smiled and crowned with success the prolonged quest for his father’s lost mine, was strangely oppressed. Buell Hampton, too, was grave and inclined to silence. But Grant Jones was gay and happy, singing blithely during the preparations for breakfast.
On the previous night he had received the story of the find with exultant delight. With such a rich mining claim all the ambitions of his life were about to be realized. He would buy out his financial partners in the Dillon Doublejack and publish it as a daily newspaper—hang the expense, the country would grow and with it the circulation, and he would be in possession of the field against all-comers. Then again he would acquire the Encampment Herald although keeping on the brilliant Earle Clemens as editor; also start another paper at Rawlins, and in a little time run a whole string of journals, like some of the big newspaper men whose names were known throughout the nation. Listening to these glowing plans as they drank their morning coffee around the campfire, Roderick and the Major could not but admire the boyish gaiety of this sanguine spirit.
“I’m going to propose to Dorothy tomorrow,” exclaimed Grant by way of grand finale to his program of great expectations, “and the Reverend Stephen Grannon will marry us before the week is out We’ll spend our honeymoon in Chicago so that I can buy some new printing presses and things. Then we’ll be back in time to bring out a grand mid-winter number that will make all Wyoming sit up and take notice. By gad, boys, it’s great to be a newspaper editor.”
“Better to be a newspaper proprietor,” laughed Roderick.
“Or both combined,” suggested the Major.
“There you’ve hit it,” cried Grant. “And that’s just the luck that has come my way at last—thanks to you, Roderick, old scout, and to you, Major, as well.”
“No, no,” protested Buell Hampton. “With your happy disposition and great capacity for work, success was bound to be yours, my dear fellow. The manner of its coming is a mere detail.”
“That’s the way a good friend cloaks good deeds,” replied Grant. “However, we’ll let it go at that. Pass the frying pan please; this bacon’s just fine.” Plans for the day were carefully discussed. The man in charge of the burros had not been taken into their confidence; as a member of the expedition he would be properly looked after later on, but meanwhile strict secrecy was the only wise policy until the location papers had been properly filed at the county seat, Rawlins. This filing would undoubtedly be the signal for a rush of all the miners and prospectors within a hundred miles of the little treasure valley among the hills.
“Yes, there will be a regular stampede,” remarked the Major—“provided the snow holds off,” he added with a glance at the grey canopy of cloud overhead.