“Where is your camp?”

“Behind some rocks, about two miles up the lake.  Follow the creek and you’ll come to a log that has fallen across.”

“Very well; I’ll take the money.”

Stormont pulled out his wallet, and then Thirlwell came near to betraying himself, because the dramatic surprise was almost too much for his self-control.  Drummond snatched the bills from the other’s hand and laughed, a savage, scornful laugh.

“You thieving hog; you blasted fool!” he cried.

“What d’you mean?” Stormont shouted, springing to his feet.

“Did you think you could play me for a sucker twice?” Drummond rejoined.  “Three hundred dollars, for my claim on the lode?  That’s what it comes to, and I reckon that’s all I’d get!” He flung out his hand, scattering the crumpled bills.  “There’s your dirty money.  I’ve got you corralled!”

Stormont was quiet; dangerously quiet Thirlwell thought, because it was obvious that Drummond had led him on until he learned his plans.  He stooped and began to pick up the bills, moving about, for the bits of paper were scattered and indistinct.  One had fallen by a heavy stone, and Thirlwell felt his nerves tingle as Stormont got nearer.  Drummond did not seem to be suspicious; his pose was careless, and Thirlwell imagined the lad was enjoying his triumph.  Both thought they were alone and they stood on a ledge that ran out into deep water.

Then Stormont clutched the stone and Thirlwell sprang to his feet.  The fellow’s caution had given way; mocked and cheated by the lad he meant to use, he had suddenly become primitive in his disappointed greed and rage.  It looked as if Drummond did not know his danger; but as Thirlwell ran forward Stormont lifted the stone and the lad leaped upon him like a wild cat.

Thirlwell stopped.  For the moment he did not see how he could interfere without doing harm, and thought Drummond did not need his help.  The men were locked in a savage grapple at the edge of the ledge and the ripples splashed upon the rocks four or five feet below.  Stormont had been deceived to the end.  It is hard for a white man to match the instinctive cunning that goes with a strain of Indian blood, and Drummond had suspected that the other meant to pick up the stone.

Neither saw Thirlwell.  They swayed and panted, striking when they got an arm loose, and then pressing body against body while each strained for a grip to lift his antagonist from his feet.  Stormont, indeed, made a better fight than Thirlwell had expected, but after a time his knees bent, his head went back, and Drummond threw him heavily.  When he struck the ground he felt for his pocket, but Drummond fell upon him with a cry that was like a wild beast’s howl.

Thirlwell saw it was time to interfere.  An Indian never forgets an injury, and Drummond had inherited his father’s grim Scottish stubbornness.  He rolled over with Stormont, and then getting uppermost, savagely bumped his head against the rock.  This gave Thirlwell his opportunity, and seizing the lad’s shoulders, he pressed his knee against the small of his back.