ousness, and there was just
a shadow of fear in both blue eyes and black. The silence and the
vastness of an empty earth and sky can bring up undreamed of things
from the bottom of men's minds. Ellhorn's more skeptical nature was
the first to gird itself against the suggestion.

"No, Tommy, I don't reckon anything of the sort. Bill Frank gave it to
us, and Dick Winters gave it to him, or, anyway, wanted him to find it
and have it, and I reckon Dick Winters worked hard enough to get it
to have a better right to it than God himself. It's sure ours, Tom,
and I reckon there won't be any cuss on it as long as we can shoot
straighter than anybody who wants to hold us up for it."

CHAPTER XVII

Emerson Mead heard the story which Ellhorn and Tuttle told and looked
at the heap of yellow nuggets without enthusiasm. His face was gloomy
and there was a sadness in his eyes that neither of his friends had
ever seen there before. He demurred over their proposal that he should
share with them, saying that he would rather they should have it all
and that he had no use for so much money. When they insisted and Tom
said, with a little catch in his voice, "Emerson, we can't enjoy any
of it if you-all don't have your share," he replied, "Well, all right,
boys. I reckon no man ever had better friends than you are."

Judge Harlin was still at the ranch, and while he and Nick and Tom
were excitedly weighing the nuggets, Mead slipped out to the corral,
saddled a horse and galloped across the foothills. Tuttle watched him
riding away with concern in his big, round face.

"Judge," he said, "what's the matter with Emerson? Is he sick?"

"I guess not. He didn't say anything about it."

"Did you bring him any bad news?"

"Not that I know of."

"Have them fellows over in Plumas been hatchin' out any more
deviltry?"

"N-no, I think not. Oh, yes, I did hear that Colonel Whittaker and
Daniels and Halliday were going over to the White Sands to hunt for
Will Whittaker's body. I told Emerson so. That's the only thing I know
of that would be likely to disturb him."

A quick glance of intelligence flashed between Tuttle's eyes and
Ellhorn's. Each was recalling Mead's promise to surrender if Will
Whittaker's body could be produced. Tuttle stood silent, with his
hands in his pockets, looking across the foothills to where Mead's
figure was disappearing against the horizon. Then without a word he
walked to the corral, saddled a horse, and w