Beth ran along the slope to meet him.

“Well?” she cried.  “What did you find?”

He smiled.  “Unless I’m crazy, Lawrence is either a liar or a fool.  That claim is safe outside the line by nearly an eighth of a mile.”

“Oh!” cried the girl.  She collapsed on the ground and sobbed in exhaustion and joy.

She could go no further.  She had kept her strength and courage up for this, and now, inside the goal, she cared not what might happen.

They camped upon the spot.  The man with the car, which had taken them out, had been ordered to meet them down at Reservation town—­the mushroom camp which had sprung into being no more than a week before the rush.  All the way down there Pratt continued alone.  He and the chauffeur, long after dark, returned with provisions and blankets.  They had driven the car as far as possible, then climbed the ravine on foot.

At nine o’clock Beth was asleep beneath the stars, dreaming of her meeting with Van.

At daylight all were up, and in the chill of the rarified mountain air were walking stiffly to the car.  The chauffeur, who had slept in his machine, promised breakfast by eight at Mrs. Dick’s.  He tore up the road and he tore away their breath, but he came into Goldite half an hour ahead of time, and claimed he had driven “pretty slow.”

Meantime, the night in the mining-camp had brought no untoward excitement.  Van, at his tent, with the covered figure lying on the earth, had welcomed his partners at midnight with the news that a “homeless and worn-out pilgrim of the desert” had come desiring rest.  He was sleeping hard; he was not to be disturbed.  In the morning he was scheduled to depart.

Tired to utter unconcern, the three old worthies made their beds with Van beside the man at peace.  And the whole five slept with a trust and abandon to nature that balanced the living and the dead.

Van was out, had eaten his breakfast, and was waiting for the sheriff when Beth and her party returned.  He beheld them, felt his heart lift upward like a lever in his breast, at sight of Beth in her male attire, and grimly shut his jaws.

Christler, the sheriff, arrived a little after eight, bringing in a wounded deputy.  Barger had shot him in the thigh.  Van did not wait for his man to eat, but urged him home to his bachelor shack and sat him down to a drink of something strong, with a cracker to munch for a meal.

Christler was tired.  He was somewhat stout; he had been in the saddle almost constantly for weeks, and now, as a victim of chagrin and disappointment, he was utterly dejected and done.

“Good Lord, Van, ain’t a man to breathe—­hain’t he got no rights to live, whatsoever?” he inquired.  “You’d chase me up, or somebody would, if I was in my grave.”

“You’d break out of your grave,” Van told him, “if you knew what’s going on.”

Christler looked dubious, draining at his glass.