“You’ll find Morris in town all right,” the stranger ventured to assure him.  “He lives right next to Neilson’s.  And—­say—­what do you know about this man Neilson?”

“Oh, nothin’ at all.  Why?”

“If you fellows is prospectin’, Jeffery Neilson is a first-class man to stay away from—­and his understrapers, too—­Ray Brent and Chan Heminway.  But they’re out of town right now.  They skinned out all in a bunch a few weeks ago—­and I can’t tell you what kind of a scent they got.”

Ezram felt cold to the marrow of his bones.  He glanced covertly at Ben; fortunately his partner was busy among the supplies and was not listening to this conversation.  Yet likely enough it was a false alarm!  Doubtless the ugly possibility that occurred to him had no justification whatever in fact.  Nevertheless, he couldn’t restrain the question that was at his lips.

“You don’t know where they went, do you?” he asked.

“Not exactly.  They took up this creek here a ways, through Spruce Pass, and over to Yuga River—­the country that kind of a crazy old chap named Hiram Melville, who died here a few weeks ago, has always prospected.”

The stranger marvelled that his old listener should have suddenly gone quite pale.

VIII

Ezram had only a moment’s further conversation with his new friend.  He put two or three questions—­in a rather curious, hushed voice—­and got his answer.  Yes, it was true that the shortest way to go to the Yuga River was to follow up the creek by which he was now standing.  It was only out of the way to go into Snowy Gulch:  they would have to come back to this very point.  And yes, a pedestrian, carrying a light pack, could make much better time than a horseman with pack animals.  The horses could go no faster than a walk, and the time required to sling packs and care for the animals cut down the day’s march by half.

These things learned, Ezram strolled over to his young partner.  And at that moment he revealed the possession of a talent that neither he nor any of his friends had ever suspected.  The stage had lost an artist of no mean ability when Ezra Melville had taken to the cattle business.  Outwardly, to the last, little lines about his lips and eyes, he was his genial, optimistic, droll old self.  His eye twinkled, his face beamed in the gray stubble, his voice was rollicking with the fun of life the same as ever.  And like Pagliacci in his masque there was not the slightest exterior sign of the fear and despair that chilled his heart.

“What have you and your poor victim been talking about, all this time?” Ben asked.

“Oh, just a gab-fest—­a tat-i-tat as you’d call it.  But you know, Ben, I’ve got a idea all a-sudden.”  Ben straightened, lighted his pipe, and prepared to listen.

“This old boy tells me that we’d save just twelve miles by striking off front here, instead of goin’ into town.  Snowy Gulch is six miles, and we have to come back to this very place.  What’s the use of goin’ into town at all?”