out of existence.

In a moment or two Devine spoke again in a different tone.

"Well, we'll get supper. You want to cool off and quiet down."

Weston felt that this was true, and it was a relief to start the fire
and prepare the meal, for he had found the rush of emotion which had
swept over him almost overwhelming. It was, however, not until the
meal was ready that he was quite master of himself, and they ate it
before they said anything further about the matter. Then Devine took
out his pipe, and lying with his back against a fir, turned to his
comrade as the soft dusk settled.

"Whether Grenfell knew where he was going when he started out last
night, or was led by some blind impulse or subconscious memory, is
more than I can tell, and, anyway, it's not a point that greatly
matters now," he said. "The cold fact is that you struck the water on
the creek where, as he told you, he once got a drink."

"But things don't fit in," objected Weston.

"Oh," said his companion, "you let me talk. You've been in this
country a few years. I was raised in it. He said that a creek ran from
the range, and, though there's mighty little water in it, I guess it
does that now. There's rock, milling rock shot with gold, under it,
and a small flow of water will filter a long way through gravel."

"But he described it as an ordinary open creek," persisted Weston.

"That's easy," said Devine. "It was, quite a while ago, and nature
handles these mountains mighty roughly, as you ought to know. She
sweeps them with cloudbursts that wash half a hillside into the
valleys, and now and then with snowslides and tremendous falls of
rock. One of them filled up that creek, and, as far as I can figure,
it did rather more. It filled up the gully through which the creek
flowed high up on the range, and, while a little water still creeps
through, most of the melted snow goes down another creek. As I took
the trouble to ascertain, it splits right through the lower slopes and
comes out most a league away."

This seemed reasonable. Most of the streams among those ranges
originate, as Weston knew, in the melting snow, but there was still a
point his comrade had left unexplained.

"Then where's the lake?" he asked.

Devine laughed.

"You're sitting right beside it now."

Weston gazed at him in blank astonishment, and then a light broke in
on him.

"The willows?" he said. "The water in that creek would no doubt spread
underground, and this is ev