Thus the wintry days wore on, and with their passing Roderick became more and more firm in his determination to be ready, when the snow was gone in the spring, to take up his father’s unfinished task of finding again the sandbar abounding with nuggets of gold. Indeed in his life of isolation it gradually came about that he thought of little else by day and dreamed of nothing else at night. Sometimes in the solitude of his room he smiled at his loneliness. What a change from the old college days—from the stir and excitement of New York. During the winter he had been invited to a score of gatherings, dances, and parties, but somehow he had become taciturn and had declined all invitations.
Then, with stern self-control he had succeeded in putting out of mind the mysterious beauty of the range. Love at first sight!—he had laughed down such silliness, and rooted out of his heart the base treason that had even for a fleeting moment permitted such a thought. Yes, there was nothing but firmest loyalty in his mind for Stella Rain, who was waiting for him so faithfully and patiently, and whose letters cheered him and filled him with greater determination than ever to find the lost mine.
His labors on the ranch were arduous but his health was excellent. At college he had been an athlete—now he was a rugged, bronzed-faced son of the hills. His only recreations were laying plans for the future and writing letters to Stella.
Not infrequently his mind wandered back to Keokuk, the old river town, and his heart grew regretful that he had quarreled with his Unde Allen Miller, and his thoughts were tender of his Aunt Lois. Once he wrote a letter to Whitley Adams, then tore it up in a dissatisfied way, returning to the determination to make his fortune before communicating with his old friends.
And so the winter passed, and spring had come again.
It was one morning in early May, just after he had finished his chores, when to his surprise Grant Jones shouted to him through the corral fence: “Hello, old man, how is ranching agreeing with you, anyway?”
“Fine,” responded Roderick, “fine and dandy.” He let himself through the gate of the corral and shook hands with Grant. “Come up to the bunk house; seems mighty good to see you.”
“Thanks,” responded Grant, as they walked along. “Do you know, Warfield, I have been shut up over on the other side of the range ever since that first big snow-storm? I paddled out on snowshoes only once during the winter, and then walked over the tops of trees. Plenty of places up on the Sierra Madre,” continued Grant, nodding his head to the westward, “where the snow is still twenty to thirty feet deep. If a fellow had ever broken through, why, of course, he would have been lost until the spring.”
“Terrible to think about,” said Roderick.
“Oh, that’s not all,” said Grant with his old exuberant laugh. “It would have been so devilish long from a fellow’s passing until his obituary came to be written. That is what gets on my nerves when I’m out on snowshoes. Of course the columns of the Doublejack are always open to write-ups on dead unfortunates, but it likes to have ‘em as near as possible to the actual date of demise. Then it’s live news.”