Mike laid a strip of scorched bacon upon a chunk of scorched bannock and bit down through the mass, chewed meditatively and stared into the coals of his camp fire.  “If they ain’t diggin’ fer gold, then what are they diggin’ fer?” he demanded aggressively, and so suddenly that Murphy started.

“A-ah, now, I’ll tell ye what they’re diggin’ fer, but it’s a secret, mind ye, and ye must nivver spheak a word av it.  They’re diggin’ fer anguintum, me boy.  An’ thot’s wort’ more than gold, an’ the likes av me ’n you wadden’t know if we was to wade through it, but it’s used in the war, I dunno, t’ make gas-bags t’ kill the inimy, and ye’re t’ say nawthin’ t’ nobody er they’ll likely take an’ hang ye fer a spy on the government, but ye’re sa-afe, Mike, s’ long as ye sthick t’ me an’ yer job an’ say nawthin’ t’ nobody, d’ ye see.”

“They’d nivver hang me fer a spy,” Mike gobbled excitedly.  “They’ll nivver hang me—­why I knowed—­”

“A-ah, av yer ivver did ye’ve fergot it intirely,” Murphy squelched him pitilessly.

Mike gulped down a mouthful and took a swallow of muddy coffee.  “They better look out how they come around me,” he threatened vaguely.  “They can’t take me for a spy.  I’d git the lawyers after ’em, an’ I’d make ’em trouble.  They wanta look out—­I’d spend ivvery cent I make on lawyers an’ courts if they took and hung me fer a spy.  I’d lawsue ’em!”

Murphy laughed.  “A-ah, would ye, now!” he cried admiringly.  “My gorry, it takes a brain like yours t’ think av things.  Now, av they hung me, I’d be likes to let ‘er sthand thot way.  I’d nivver a thought t’ lawsue ’em fer it—­I wad not!”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A CAVE DWELLER JACK WOULD BE

Smoke-tinged sunlight and warm winds and languorous days held for another full month in the mountains.  Then the pines complained all through one night, and in the morning they roared like the rush of breakers in a storm, and sent dead branches crashing down, and sifted brown needles thick upon the earth below.

“A-ah, but she’s goin’ t’ give us the rain now, I dunno,” Murphy predicted, staring up at the leaden clouds through his thick glasses.  “Ye better git up some firewood, Mike, and make the camp snug agin foul weather.  An’ av’ the both of ye ain’t got yer place tight an’ ready fer a sthorm, ye betther be stirrin’ yerselves an’ let the diggin’ go fer a day.  It’s firewood ye’ll need, an’ in a dry place.  An’ while ye’re talkin’ ’bout wood, have yer got yer wood fer the winter?  An’ yer goin’ to sthay, ye bin tellin’ me.”

Fred looked around him at the forest where the oaks and the cottonwoods and all the trailing vines were fluttering gay red and yellow leaves in the wind.  Fall was slipping on him unaware.  He had thought that there was plenty of time to make ready for winter, but now he knew that the time was short—­too short, maybe, with that wind booming up from the southwest.