of Grenfell anywhere. He called out
sharply as soon as he was sure of this, and his voice rang hollowly up
the valley, but there was no answer until Devine slowly shook clear of
his blankets.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Grenfell's gone."

"Gone!" Devine was on his feet in a moment.

"It looks like it," said Weston, sharply. "Can you see him?"

Devine gazed into the shadows, but he saw nothing beyond the rows of
dusky trunks.

"Where's he gone?"

"That," said Weston, "is naturally just what I don't know. It's up to
us to find out."

Then he briefly related his conversation with Grenfell, and the two
looked at each other. There was just light enough to show the anxiety
in their faces.

"Well," said Devine, "it's quite clear to me that he's on the trail;
and it's fortunate in one way that he's left a plain trail behind him.
Whether the whole thing's a delusion on his part, or whether he did
strike that lode, I don't know, but I didn't like the man's looks
yesterday. He seemed badly played out, and it kind of struck me he was
just holding on." He turned toward the pack-horse and pulled up the
picket. "Anyway, we'll get upon his trail."

They both were men of action, and inside of five minutes they had
lashed their packs together and started without breakfast. Weston led
the horse, while Devine picked up Grenfell's trail. Weston was a
little astonished at the ease with which his companion did this.

"It's quite simple," said the surveyor, when the other stopped a
moment where the footprints seemed to break off, and questioned his
decision. "He's heading straight on, and not walking like a man with
much strength in him. I wish I knew just how far he is ahead of us."
Then he added in explanation: "I went east for a while, but I was
raised in this country, and this is 'way easier than trailing a deer."

They went on a little faster after that, for Devine had promptly
picked up the trail again, and by the time the red sun had cleared the
range it led them out of the brulee and into a waste of rock and
gravel, where there were smaller firs and strips of tangled
undergrowth. Here and there Devine stopped for a few minutes, but he
found the trail again, though it led them through thickets, and now
and then they floundered among half-rotten fallen trunks and branches.
Fortunately, the horse was a Cayuse and used to that kind of work.

It rapidly grew hotter, until the perspiration streamed from them, and
West