“I’m trying to tell you,” said Gratton hurriedly.  “There—­there’s another cave; up above.  That’s where King had his camp; that where’s I got the sack.  It’s up there——­”

“No wonder she wanted to skip out,” jeered Steve Jarrold, his great bony hand locked about Gloria’s shrinking shoulder.  His ill-featured face, the small, pig eyes, always jeering, the black bristle of beard, not unlike a hog’s bristles, were thrust close to her face.  “Where’s King all this time?” he demanded.  “Up in the other cave, maybe?”

“No,” she said dismally, seeking to jerk away from his evil glance and whiskey-laden breath.  “He has gone——­”

“That’s good; let him go.  We don’t care, do we?  Eh, girlie?” But again his hand tightened until the hard fingers hurt her.  “But gone where?”

“We were short of food—­he is hunting—­maybe he has gone for help——­”

“And you showed Gratton where he hid his gold?  That’s a nice little she-trick, ain’t it?  Well, while the showing’s good, lead us to the rest of it.”

“That’s the eye, Steve,” said Brodie.  He stepped forward, shoved his rifle-muzzle against Gratton’s body, and commanded:  “You, too.  Go ahead, you and her, and show us the way.  And no monkey business, either of you, or I’ll blow a hole square through you.”

Gratton, grown nimble, darted ahead with Brodie always close at his heels.  Gloria, forced on by Jarrold, came next, and after them the others.  Benny was the last; he had taken time to put the gold back into the sack and set it aside among the shadows.  For Benny believed in making sure of what they had, even while they quested better things.  Then he caught up his rifle, the only other gun besides Brodie’s, and came hurrying after them.

They went up the cliff in a long file, clawing their way, cursing the steepness, now and then one or another of them fumbling uncertainly, close to a slip and a fall.  It was clear that, with the possible exception of Swen Brodie, not a man of them was entirely sober.  But they made the climb safely and hastened into the upper cave eagerly.

“It’s somewhere back there,” said Gratton.

“More fire,” shouted Brodie.  His voice exulted; his blood would be running now with the gold fever.  He tossed on an armful of dry wood; the flames caught and roared; shadows quivered and danced.  Already Benny was at the far end of the cave; the others ran after him.  Even Jarrold relinquished Gloria’s arm, eager to be in at the finding.  But he called to her as he went: 

“You stick where you are.  I’m not forgetting you this time.”

Fascinated, she watched them.  They ran like blood-lusting dogs that had briefly lost their quarry, that were seeking everywhere, in every cranny, with slavering jaws.  They turned aside into side-pockets of the main cavern; they got torches and looked high and low; they went back and forth, up and down; they stumbled against one another and cursed angrily; they caught up bits of stone, ran back to the fire to see if the fragments were shot with gold; cursed and hurled the useless things from them, and ran back again, to jostle and seek and be first; they were not so much like dogs now as human hogs, fighting to get first into the trough.