Miners with outfits, gamblers with their paraphernalia, saloon men with case on case of liquors, assayers, lawyers, teamsters, cooks—­even a half dozen women—­comprised the heterogeneous army making ready for the charge.  The streets were filled with horses, men, and mules.  The saloons were jammed to suffocation.  Musical discord filled the air.  Only the land, the silent old hills, the ancient, burned-out furnace of gold, was absolutely calm.  Overhead a few clouds blurred the sky.  Beyond them the eternal march of the stars proceeded in the majesty of space, with billions of years in which to fulfil the cosmic cycle of existence.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE HARDSHIPS OF THE TRAIL

In the night, far out to the northward, a storm descended like a cataclysm.  Torrential rains were poured upon the hills from a cloudburst exceptionally savage.  Only the scattered outposts, as it were, of the storm were blown as far as Goldite.  A sprinkle of rain that dried at once was the most those mountains received.

Van made an early start from the “Laughing Water” claim, to deliver Beth’s letter in Starlight.  Her note to himself he read once more as his pony jogged down the descent.

“Dear Mr. Van:  I wonder if I dare to ask a favor—­from one who has done so much already?  My brother, in Starlight, is ill.  He has hurt himself, I do not know how badly.  A letter I sent has never been received, and I am worried.  The effort I made to see him—­well—­at least, I’m glad I made the effort.  But meantime, what of poor Glen?  Some little fear I have may be groundless.  I shall therefore keep it to myself—­but I have it, perhaps because I am a woman.  I must know the truth about my brother—­how he is—­what has been happening.  It is far more important than I dare confess.  I have written him a letter and sent it to you in the hope you may not find it impossible to carry it to Glen in person.  If I am asking too much, please do not hesitate to say so.  I am sure you will be friendly enough for that—­to say ‘no’ if need be to another friend—­your friend, BETH KENT.”

She did not regret that desert experience—­that was almost enough for him to know!  He had lived in a glow since that wonderful night—­and this letter provided another.  He rode like a proud young crusader of old, with his head in a region of sunshine and gold, his vision transfixed by a face.  Her love had become his holy grail—­and for that he would ride to death itself.

His way he shortened, or thought to shorten, by dropping down from the reservation heights to the new-made town a mile below.  He came upon the place abruptly, after dipping once into a canyon, and looked with amazement on the place.  In the past twelve hours it had doubled in size and increased twenty-fold in its fever.  The face of the desert was literally alive with men and animals.  Half of Goldite and practically all of a dozen lesser camps were there.  Confusion, discomfort, and distraction seemed hopelessly enthroned.  The “rush” was written in men’s faces, in their actions, in their baggage, words, and rising temperature.