“Listen! Horn had gold. How much I don’t know. But it must have been a great deal. He owned the caravan with which we left California. Horn grew to like me. But he hated all the rest.... That night we ended the awful ride! The wagons stalled!... The grayness of dawn—the stillness—oh, I feel them now!... That terrible Indian yell rang out. All my life I’ll hear it!... Then Horn dug a hole. He buried his gold.... And he said whoever escaped could have it. He had no hope.”
“Allie, you’re a mine of surprises. Buried gold! What next?”
“Neale, I wonder—did the Sioux find that gold?” she asked.
“It’s not likely. There certainly wasn’t any hole left open around that place. I saw every inch of ground under those trees.... Allie, I’ll go there to-morrow and hunt for it.”
“Let me go,” she implored. “Ah! I forgot! No—no!... There must be my mother’s grave.”
“Yes, it’s there. I saw. I will mark it.... Allie, how glad I am that you can speak of her—of her past—her grave there without weakening. You are brave! But forget... Allie, if I find that gold it’ll be yours.”
“No. Yours.”
“But I wasn’t one of the caravan. He did not give it to any outsider. You escaped. Therefore it will belong to you.”
“Dearest, I am yours.”
Next day, without acquainting Slingerland or Larry with his purpose, Neale rode down the valley trail.