lapped his buckskin thigh and uttered an exclamation.

"By jings!" he said. "I have it--and those three fellows had it, too.
We've overrun 'em. They've turned off, below, and I'll wager they're
making for that smudge! Remember that smudge on the map--what looked
to be another 'G. H.,' in capital letters? Well, sir, if that sign
isn't 'G. W.' instead of 'G. H.' I'll miss my guess. 'G. W.'--'Golden
West'! How does that strike you? It's yonder in the new quartz
country, you see."

Charley stared, agape. The idea was stupendous. Oh, if only they had
that map, again, so as to re-examine it.

"Why--I shouldn't wonder if you were right, Grigsby," agreed his
father, weighing the matter. "Then we ought to get over there as quick
as we can."

"I _know_ I'm right," asserted the Fremonter. "Feel it in my bones.
And away we go, as straight as we can travel."

A long, long tramp across a wild country it was, now, upon which the
tall Fremonter piloted the way. He seemed to know where he was going
and what he was doing; and Charley and his father could only trust in
his guidance. Up hill and down, through timber and brush, sometimes on
a trail and sometimes not, ever making northward, on they went, with
the burro the nimblest of all, and Mr. Adams having hard work,
occasionally, with his lame leg. But wherever they passed, no matter
how rough and high the country, they encountered miners like
themselves, digging and washing and searching, in camp or on the march.

But not a word more, of the Jacobs party, or of the Golden West mine.

Mr. Grigsby appeared to be looking for certain landmarks, ahead. It
was at the end of two weeks of travel and camp when they three,
following a pack trail across a timbered ridge, suddenly emerged into a
beautiful vista of valley and snowy range, to the north and east; the
course of a rushing river, and the tents of another mining camp.

"There she is!" cheered the Fremonter, swinging his hat. "There's the
trail where Fremont and we fellows came in, the second time, winter of
Forty-five. Yon river's the North Branch of the American. I remember
that gap, there. What that camp is I don't know; but we'll find out."

"This is an emigrant trail, then, too, isn't it?" queried Charley's
father.

"It'll be the main emigrant trail, or I'm much mistaken."

"I don't see any emigrants, though," puffed Charley, as down they
hastened, for the camp. He was wondering about Billy Walker.