trying to
tell her? She couldn't quite hear. She wished he would talk
louder--but it was something about the mine, and the men who were
struggling.... She awoke with a start, and glanced swiftly about the
cabin. The roots of her hair along the back of her neck tingled
uncomfortably. She felt she was not alone--that somewhere eyes were
watching her. The chintz curtain that screened the open window swayed
lightly in the night breeze and she jumped nervously. "I'm a perfect
fool!" she exclaimed, aloud: "As if any 'Jack the Peeper' would be
prowling around these mountains! It's just nerves, that's all it is."

Slipping the map and the photographs beneath a plate, she crossed to
the door and made sure the bar was in place, took the white butted
revolver from its holster, and with a determined tightening of the
lips, stepped to the window, drew the curtain aside, and stood peering
out into the dark. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock, and
the purling of the water as it rushed among the stones of the shallow
ford. Overhead the stars winked brightly, in sharp contrast to the
velvet blackness of the pines. The sound of the water soothed her, and
she laughed--a forced little laugh, but it made her feel better.
Crossing to the table she blew out the lamp and, placing her revolver
at the head of her bunk, undressed in the darkness. She raised the
plate, took the map and the two precious photographs, placed them in
their envelope, and slipped the chain about her neck.

For a long time she lay between her blankets, wide awake, conscious
that she was straining her ears to catch some faint sound. A half
dozen times she caught herself listening with nerves on edge and
muscles taut, and each time forced herself to relax. But always she
came back to that horrible, tense listening. She charged herself with
cowardice, and pooh-poohed her fears, but it was no use, and she wound
up by covering her head with her blanket. "I don't care, there _was_
somebody watching, but if he thinks he's going to find out where I
keep these," her hand clutched the little oiled packet, "he'll have to
come again, that's all."

It was nearly an hour later that Monk Bethune quitted his post close
against the cabin wall, at the point where the chinking had fallen
away from the logs, and slipped silently into the timber.

CHAPTER VIII

PROSPECTING

The gray of early morning was just beginning to render objects in the
little room indisting