“It has never been a gold country except for pockets, some of them remarkably rich,” she told him doubtfully, evidently trying not to discourage him.  “But my father has come to the conclusion that it’s really worth prospecting.  He’s in this same country now.”

“I suppose I’ll meet him—­I’ll likely meet him to-night when I take you to the cabin on the river.  You said his name was—­”

“Jeffery Neilson.”

For all that he was prepared for it, the name was a straight-out body blow to Ben.  He had still dared to hope that this girl was of no blood kin of the claim-jumper, Jeffery Neilson.  The truth was now only too plain.  By the girl’s own word he was operating in Hiram Melville’s district and unquestionably had already jumped the claim.  His daughter was joining him now, probably to keep house for him; and for all that Ben knew, already possessing guilty knowledge of her father’s crime.

It was hard to hold the head erect, after that.  Already he had builded much on his friendship with this girl, only to find that she was allied with the enemy camp.  He saw in a flash how unlikely it would be that Ezram and himself could drive the usurpers out:  the claim-jumper is a difficult problem, even when the original discoverer is living and in possession, much more so when he is silent in his grave.

Ben had known the breed since boyhood, and he hated them as he hated coyotes and pack-rats.  They lacked the manhood to brave the unknown in pursuit of the golden fleece; they waited until after years of grinding labor the strike was made and then pounced down upon the claim like vultures on the dead.  Ben was glad he had not obeyed his impulse to tell the girl of his true reason for coming to the Yuga.  He knew now, with many foes against him, he could best operate in the dark.

His thought flashed to Ezram.  The recovery of the mine had been the old man’s fondest dream, the last hope of his declining years, and this setback would go hard with him.  The blow was ever so much more cruel on Ezram’s account than his own.  Ben could picture his downcast face, trying yet to smile; his sobered eyes that he would try to keep bright.  But there would be certain planning, when they met again over their camp fire.  And there were three of them allied now.  Fenris the wolf had come into his service.

He glanced back at the gray-black creature that followed at the heels of his horse; and now, at twilight’s graying, he saw that a significant and startling change had come over him.  He no longer trotted easily behind them.  He came stalking, almost as if in the hunt, his ears pointing, his neck hairs bristling, and there were the beginnings of curious, lurid lightnings in his eyes.  There could be but one answer.  He had been swept away in the current of madness that sweeps the forest at the fall of darkness:  the age-old intoxication of the wilderness night.  The hunting hours were at hand.  The creatures of claw and fang were coming into their own.  Fenris was shivering all over with those dark wood’s passions that not even the wisest naturalist can fully understand.