ook place many winters ago, and some of the
exiles were slain. One of these was Iapi, the husband of Pogosa. He it
was who could not speak Shoshoni."

Impatiently Kelley asked, "Will she be able to show us the mine?"

"She will try, but she is old and her mind is misty. She say she is
grateful to you, Red Beard, and will give the gold to you. She asks that
you take her back to her own people after you find the mine."

"Is the mine far from here?" asked Wetherell, gently.

"No, but it is very hard to find."

"Can't you trace the trail on a piece of paper for me?" he inquired.

"No, Pogosa cannot make the road. She can only tell you. Send the other
white man away."

"Vamoose!" Wetherell called with a note of triumph in his voice, and
Tall Ed faded away.

With faltering voice Pogosa began the all-important part of her tale:
"The mine is on the head of the Wind River. Not far, but the way is very
hard. Pogosa will not be able to lead you. From where we are you cross
the valley to the mountain. You turn to your right and descend to a
small lake lying under a bank of snow. This bank is held up by a row of
black rocks. Below this lake is a stream and a long hill of round
stones, all mixed together. On the west side of this ridge, just above
another small lake, you will find the mine."

"Can it be approached from below?"

"No, a great canyon and many cliffs are there--" Her voice ceased
abruptly. As suddenly as if life had been instantly withdrawn, she fell
back upon her bed, and Eugene, released from the grasp of her hand, fled
to Kelley, leaving Wetherell alone with the mystery.

"She seems to have dropped into a sort of trance," he said to Kelley, as
he came back to the camp-fire.

"Have you faith enough to follow those directions?" asked his partner.

"I certainly have."

Kelley laughed. "She may have a different set of directions to-morrow
night. What do you say, Eugene? Pogos' all same fraud?"

Eugene, cowering close to the fire, needed not speech to make evident
his awe of the battle-field. "Injun spirits all round," he whispered.
"Hear 'em? They cry to Pogos'." He lifted a hand in warning.

"It's only the wind in the dead pines," said Kelley.

"Plenty Injun spirits. _They cry!_" persisted Eugene.

"There speaks the primitive man," remarked Wetherell. "Our ancestors in
Ireland or Wales or Scotland all had the same awe and wonder of the
dark--just as the negroes in the South believe that on certain ni