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Updated: May 24, 2025
I never knew how I got out or where Verneille went, but when I struck a prospector's camp he wasn't with me." The track-grader nodded. He had been born among the ranges, and knew that the prospectors who went out on the gold trail did not invariably come back. He had heard of famishing men staggering along astonishing distances half-asleep or too dazed to notice where they were going.
On the other hand, he remembered that she had known him only as a track-grader, and that he was, as a matter of fact, nothing else. He could not send the order back without appearing ungracious or disposed to assert that he was of her own station. Then another thought struck him. "I don't think they knew my name. They called me Clarence," he said.
Besides, he was young enough to be sanguine, although, for that matter, older men, worn by disappointments and toilsome journeys among the hills, have set out once more on the gold trail with an optimistic faith that has led them to their death. Ambition awoke in him, and he recognized now that the week or two spent in Kinnaird's camp had rendered it impossible for him to remain a track-grader.
Then Grenfell turned to him and his companion. "I've made you my offer a third-share each," he said. "Are you coming?" The track-grader shook his head. "No," he replied, "I guess not. I'm making good wages here. So long as I can keep from riling Cassidy they're sure." Then he grinned at Weston. "It's your call."
He and Weston had done so themselves, for that matter. "You told the prospector about the lead?" Weston inquired. "If I did he never found the mine. I was scarcely sensible when I reached his camp, and I lay there very ill until he went on and left me with half a deer he'd shot. After that I nearly gave out again making the settlements." "Well," said the track-grader, "where's the lake?"
He had more than once during the last few weeks doubted that Grenfell had ever found the quartz-reef at all, for it seemed quite possible that he had, as the track-grader suggested, merely fancied that he had done so, and the man's manner had borne out that supposition.
"Well," he said, "that's very much what happens to the rancher and the track-grader every now and then; and when it does he goes up into the bush prospecting. Still, I think you were wrong when you said that we seldom bring back anything. Did you bring nothing down with you from the quiet and the glimmering moonlight up yonder above the timber line?"
He broke off for a moment, and appeared to consider. "There's another point. The old tank has no nerves left, and he's no use on his legs. Guess, you'll have to carry him over the range." Weston fancied that this was probable, and the track-grader, who turned away to speak to another man, left him in a thoughtful mood.
He had made up his mind that he would not trouble them again, at least while he toiled as a track-grader or a hired man; but now, when it seemed that trouble had come upon them, he regretted many things. Kinnaird signed to him that he might take away the plates, and he gathered them up, scarcely conscious of what he was doing, and then stumbled and dropped the pile of them.
I think" and by his tense face he seemed to be trying earnestly to remember something "we were quite a few days crossing that range, and our provisions were running put when we hit the valley." "Well?" prompted the track-grader when he stopped. "I crawled down to the pool to drink. There were pebbles in it and a ledge above.
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