“What do ye s’pose ever possessed that old pole-cat to stake a placer claim jest there, ‘stead o’ somewhere else?  The dirt won’t pan color, will it?” asked Dad.  “That’s just what has bothered me, Dad.  The only way that I can figure it out is that Williams got some inkling of the prospects of the tunnel from some of Bill’s papers or letters.  It wasn’t two weeks after Bill died till that old skinflint went tramping up there and staked that placer claim.  He’s worked assessments on it every year since.  One year he repaired the cabin, and one year he built a dam; at other times he built a bridge and a trail, and dug an assessment hole or two—­most anything to get in the required hundred dollars’ worth of working.  It’s that, more than anything else, that has set me to wondering just what was in the old hole, after all, that made him so interested.  Bill was conscious long enough to talk a little before he died, and I never believed that Williams told me the truth about what he said.  It’s taken me a long time to think it all out, but I believe there is something I don’t know about the deal.”

“Well, who knows, Tad, who knows; maybe we’re a sittin’ on a pile o’ gold nuggets this minute; but we’ll never see ’em; mark my words, boy, we’ll never see ’em.  God Almighty’s a savin’ ’em fer somethin’, if there is any, an’ if we ain’t to have ’em, we’ll never git ’em, that’s sure.”  After a few vigorous puffs, Dad lapsed into a long silence, and soon Tad arose to go.

“Good-night, Dad, good-night,” he said in an absent-minded way, as he started through the old door and up the trail.

Some time in the night the clouds broke and the stars came out clear and shining.  A warm current of air came gently up from the valley, softly shaking the ever-responsive leaves of the stately aspens.  The night was absolutely still, and the fire had burned down till all that remained of it was a rounded heap of brightly-glowing embers.  Far, far away a turtle dove was calling—­calling so softly that it almost seemed to be imagination.  Now and then a katydid would lift its tiny voice for a few seconds.

Willis rose cautiously on one shoulder, and looked about him.  He placed his hand to his ear and gazed intently out into the darkness.  What was that?  He shut his eyes that he might hear the better.  He could not be mistaken, he had heard a dry twig snap—­one, two, three little dry, rasping sounds.  Perhaps it was just a rabbit or a squirrel.  Again he raised himself cautiously on his shoulder and peered out into the shadows.  There! another snap, this time nearer and more distinct.  The night breeze gently fanned the dying embers.  Suddenly there was a series of gentle little patters on the dead leaves just outside the circle of light.  Would he awaken Mr. Allen, or would he watch by himself.  Hardly had the thought entered his head when, without a sound, and without being conscious that another was watching, Mr. Allen slowly arose to a sitting posture and stared out into the forest in the same direction.