“What on earth?” questioned Mr. Allen.

“I’m trying to get a squirrel.  I saw him up in this tree just a moment ago,” cried Sleepy.

“Is that all you can find to do to use up your energy?” asked Mr. Allen dryly.  Sleepy looked at him sheepishly, then hung his head and slowly returned to the cabin, brought a pail of water from the stream, then crawled up into the bunk, out of sight.

By the time things were straightened around in the cabin so that the mason could build the fireplace it was time to be starting home, but every one was too tired from the day’s work.  They decided they would rest in the cool shade for an hour before beginning the tramp down.  It would then be twilight.

Willis took this occasion to do a little exploring on his own account.  He had worked faithfully all day and was very tired, but he did so want to find his father’s mine before he went home this time.  He slipped away unobserved and took the lower trail, which followed up to the remains of the second bridge, then climbed to the tumbled-down cabin they had found the first day.  Here he took the trail that led far up into the timber.  Finally he saw far up above him what appeared to be an old mine dump.  Quickly he clambered up over rocks and rotting logs toward it, and in a few moments he stood on the dump itself, which was of hard black stone, with the exception of just a little quartz.  He was sure it was the same kind of stone he had seen on the old mantle at his grandfather’s.  The quartz was apparently the last stone dumped.

At one side stood an old mine shaft, perhaps fifty feet deep, with an ancient hand-made windlass still at the top.  Then just to one side and entering the mountain was a great log door, put together with bolts.  The lock was a strong powder-house lock, made of heavy brass.  The place gave no appearance of having seen a man in many years.  The hinges and hasp on the great door were heavily corroded, and an old metal wheelbarrow lay on the dump, rusted red.  A tin sign fastened to a tree at the side of the tunnel had become a target for expert gunners.  Willis tried the door, but could not force it a particle.  Turning, he stood looking off into the canyon toward Cheyenne.  “So this is the spot,” he mused; “and it has never been touched in these ten years.  Poor old daddy, poor old daddy!” He leaned heavily against the log door, and his thoughts came thick and fast, only to conclude, as they always did, with, “Where is Tad Kieser and why does my uncle try to keep me away from this spot?”

He was standing where his father had stood many times, and the boy seemed to be very conscious of his presence just then.  He wondered if, perhaps, there had not been something of just love for the place itself, as well as for the gold, which had drawn his father there so irresistibly.  Such a spot for a long, quiet visit with one’s self!  Below him the stream and the little cabin; to one side, and a little