long, long days of endless blue and cloudless, overhanging solitude; summer days when the wearying, incessant trade winds should sing around that empty shell and voice its desolation.  He gathered together hastily a few articles that were especially his own—­rather that the free communion of the camp, from indifference or accident, had left wholly to him.  He hesitated for a moment over his rifle, but, scrupulous in his wounded pride, turned away and left the familiar weapon that in the dark days had so often provided the dinner or breakfast of the little household.  Candor compels me to state that his equipment was not large nor eminently practical.  His scant pack was a light weight for even his young shoulders, but I fear he thought more of getting away from the Past than providing for the Future.

With this vague but sole purpose he left the cabin, and almost mechanically turned his steps towards the creek he had crossed that morning.  He knew that by this route he would avoid meeting his companions; its difficulties and circuitousness would exercise his feverish limbs and give him time for reflection.  He had determined to leave the claim, but whence he had not yet considered.  He reached the bank of the creek where he had stood two hours before; it seemed to him two years.  He looked curiously at his reflection in one of the broad pools of overflow, and fancied he looked older.  He watched the rush and outset of the turbid current hurrying to meet the South Fork, and to eventually lose itself in the yellow Sacramento.  Even in his preoccupation he was impressed with a likeness to himself and his companions in this flood that had burst its peaceful boundaries.  In the drifting fragments of one of their forgotten flumes washed from the bank, he fancied he saw an omen of the disintegration and decay of the Lone Star claim.

The strange hush in the air that he had noticed before—­a calm so inconsistent with that hour and the season as to seem portentous—­became more marked in contrast to the feverish rush of the turbulent watercourse.  A few clouds lazily huddled in the west apparently had gone to rest with the sun on beds of somnolent poppies.  There was a gleam as of golden water everywhere along the horizon, washing out the cold snow-peaks, and drowning even the rising moon.  The creek caught it here and there, until, in grim irony, it seemed to bear their broken sluice-boxes and useless engines on the very Pactolian stream they had been hopefully created to direct and carry.  But by some peculiar trick of the atmosphere the perfect plenitude of that golden sunset glory was lavished on the rugged sides and tangled crest of the Lone Star Mountain.  That isolated peak, the landmark of their claim, the gaunt monument of their folly, transfigured in the evening splendor, kept its radiance unquenched long after the glow had fallen from the encompassing skies, and when at last the rising moon, step by step, put out the fires along the winding valley and plains, and crept up the bosky sides of the canon, the vanishing sunset was lost only to reappear as a golden crown.