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HE sun required yet another hour to climb to the crest of the Sierra as Old Misery limped up the narrow, rocky channel leading to the basin. He carried a large pack and two rifles; and he was glad to rest for a bit when he reached the lower end of the basin. The glow in the eastern sky revealed the camp of the three men and the girl—four mounds of blankets on the grass near the tiny mountain stream.
A larger mound at some distance from the sleeper, stirred and rose to four feet; and Bill Williams came sniffling toward his master. The mountain man advanced, threw down his pack and guns, fondled his pet's head and gave him a chew of tobacco. It was the girl Maria who first sensed his approach. She sat up and threw aside her blankets, then rose and ran to meet him.
“Senor Comandante comes back—without my grandfather,” she whispered.
“He won't come back any more,” he bluntly announced. “Rubbed out, fighting with the breed, Ching-a-ling.”
“Madre de Dios! What words to bring me!” she hissed. “Then the granddaughter goes! She has eyes. She has a knife. She is young—not a poor old blind man.”
“Ching-a-ling is dead. Your grandpap did for him after gitting his own quittance. The camp in Grass Holler is filled with men, looking for you and the younker.”
“He keeled Vesequio? Ah, that is good! Is it not? My grandfather was an old man. He would die ver' soon, keeled by the years. Many times he has said each year is so much more weight on his shoulders. Rest his soul! He struck me many times. But I forgeeve. He was a ver' brave old caballero. He keeled the man who insult me. The men below? Can they find us here?”
“We must be leaving as soon as we eat,” he told her. “By sun-up they'll be spreading out and hunting. They can't find us by follering any trail; they might stumble upon us. Nearly walked my legs off gitting here. Nevada City has started posses after Murieta. This time they'll get him. Just as sure as if he'd dreamed of snakes, or the moon. Mexico is the place for you.”
“Pouf! Never will they catch Don Joaquin Murieta. If they catch me he will come and take me from them.”
“If they catch you they might stretch your slim neck. Murieta couldn't free you. The younker must go over the ridge. They're hunting him as well as you.”
Weymouth Mass stirred uneasily and opened his eyes.
“Back again,” he rumbled, and his deep, booming voice brought Gilbert from his dreams.
Old Misery briefly repeated what he had told the girl and directed that food be prepared and a start made at once. Weymouth Mass did not seem to apprehend any danger and was loath to leave the basin.
“We've begun uncovering the top soil and we've found one small nest of nuggets already. I put them in a bag for Gilbert.”
“But the men in Coloma!” cried Gilbert. “What will they be thinking? I'm branded as a thief by this time! I can't go home. I can't go anywhere under my own name. I'd rather stay and risk capture!”
“Easy and simple as lifting the back-fat out of a buf'ler,” declared Old Misery. “I've fetched a good rifle for you. We'll pick up some hosses after we git over the ridge. And a pack-mule. Once we git 'em we'll own all outdoors. Turn mountain man and live as you was made to live. Walk along the Rockies and see things. Work only for yourself. No one west the Mississippi will care a hoot to know your name or hist'ry. I'll make you into a prime mountain man.”
Gilbert stared with defeated eyes at the mountain man.
Misery eagerly continued:
“I know all the ground. We'll find Tom Tobin and have some fun. I'm getting old and cantank'rous. You can look after me a trifle.”
“Senor Gilbert can not go East. He can not stay in California. Let him go to Mexico where he will be called a great man for helping Don Murieta,” softly urged the girl.
Old Misery glanced with worried eyes from one to the other, and conceded:
“Here is his new rifle and a small bag of nuggets. It is for him to say.”
The Vermonter shook his head dismally.
“I can't leave the United States. If I must lose myself, give up my name, and be thought a thief, at least I'll stay in the country.”