“O, is that so?” returned Mr. Allen.  “Then you don’t think there is any gold here at all?”

“Nope, I don’t, an’ I’ll tell ye why.  Gold, as it’s found in these parts, runs in a strata of quartz.  Now, there ain’t no quartz in this range, except on Cheyenne.  The old-timer down at the inn says that there’s gold up here, an’ he knows where it is, but you can’t take no stock in these old fellers.  They’re daft on the gold question.”

Mr. Allen looked at his watch, then, turning to the fellows, he suggested that they had better start for home.  After a little more conversation the two parties separated, one to camp for the night in the cabin, the other to return to the city.

Willis motioned Mr. Allen to the back of the line as they worked their way down the trail and into the park.

“The plot thickens,” began Willis, with a queer little smile on his face.  Then with a slight chuckle he added:  “To be more accurate, I suppose I should say ‘The plot thins.’  Those are the two men that were at my uncle’s house the morning we started on this trip, and my uncle drew that sketch—­I’m sure of it.  The heading was torn from the paper, but I feel it in my bones that he was the artist.  Those are the men that were doing the assessment on my father’s old claim on Cheyenne for my uncle.  He never dreamed of my seeing them here and knowing they were in his employ.  I understand now why he didn’t want me to come on this trip.  A coward is always suspicious.  I never would have put the two together in the wide world if he hadn’t made such a fuss about my coming.  One thing is absolutely certain—­my Uncle Williams is crooked, and that isn’t all, either.  My Uncle Williams owns that cabin, and we’ll never get it for our use in this wide world.  What will the fellows say when they know it belongs to my uncle and we can’t get it?  The cabin is ideal, and it could be repaired with very little cost.  It is isolated and in a beautiful spot, and is the only thing we have found.  Don’t tell the fellows about it, please, until I see what I can do.  I’ll do my very best.”

“Now, look here, my boy; don’t let that bother you,” replied Mr. Allen.  “Wait.  Don’t trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.  He hasn’t troubled you yet, he’s just getting ready to.  Let’s beat him at his own game.  There are more ways than one to skin a cat.”

“But how?” inquired Willis.

“Well, the first thing to do is to get the exact location of the cabin, then go to the county recorder’s office and see to whom the property belongs.  If it ever belonged to your father, as you are now disposed to believe—­”

“Yes, I’d bet my hat, Mr. Allen, that this is the very cabin that my father and Tad Kieser built.  O, how I ’d like to have it all for my very own!” Mr. Allen interrupted him.  “As I was saying, the records will show very plainly if it was ever transferred or if it was anything but a lode claim.  If your father owned it, that settles it.  Williams has nothing to say about it.  Placer claims can’t be taken on deeded property.  However, let’s not worry about it, but let’s count it ours and work toward that end.”