“Will that be long?”
“You can never tell. I might strike it rich to-morrow. Always I dream I’m goin’ to. It’s the dream that keeps a prospector nailed to the lonely wastes.”
Indeed, this strange man was a dreamer of dreams. Adam understood him now, all except that obsession for just so much gold. It seemed the only flaw in a great character. But the fidelity to that purpose was great as it was inexplicable.
“Dismukes, you had a third of your stake when we met years ago. How much now?”
“More than half, Wansfell, safe in banks an’ some hid away,” came the answer, rolling and strong. What understanding of endless effort abided in that voice!
“A quarter of a million! My friend, it is enough. Take it and go—fulfill your cherished dream. Go before it’s too late.”
“I’ve thought of that. Many times when I was sick an’ worn out with the damned heat an’ loneliness I’ve tempted myself with what you said. But, no. I’ll never do that. It’s the same to me now as if I had no money at all.”
“Take care, Dismukes,” warned Adam. “It’s the gaining of gold—not what it might bring—that drives you.”
“Ah! Quien sabe, as the Mexicans say?... Wansfell, have you learned the curse—or it may be the blessing—of the desert—what makes us wanderers of the wastelands?”
“No. I have not. Sometimes I feel it’s close to me, like the feeling of a spirit out there on the lonely desert at night. But it’s a great thing, Dismukes. And it is linked to the very beginnings of us. Some day I’ll know.”