“What have ye been doin’, Curly?” the old man asked.  “An’ why was ye driftin’ out under that fog-bank?  Ye nearly got left, let me tell ye that.”

“I know we did, and I thought that d——­, excuse me, Sam,” he apologized, as he again glanced toward Reynolds.  “I mean, I thought that the fog-bank would never lift.  We’ve been doing some of the islands for several months.”

“Strike anything?”

“Nothing, an’ nearly starved in the bargain.  If it hadn’t been fer an Indian mission, we wouldn’t be alive now.”

“Then missionaries are of some use after all, Curly.  You was allus hard on ’em, if I remember right.”

“Umph!  They’re all right when one’s starving.  If they’d only leave the Gospel dope out, it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Got a dose of it, eh?”

“Should say I did.  Morning, noon an’ night I had to go to church with the Indians.  I’ve had enough to last me the rest of me life.  Say, weren’t we glad to get away!”

“Goin’ north agin?  I thought ye was through, up thar?”

“So did I. But we heard of the new strike at Big Draw, an’ decided to try our luck once more.”

“Think ye’ll hit it this time?”

“I hope so.  But it isn’t altogether the gold that’s taking me back.  There’s something more attractive.”

“So I imagined.”

“I thought you would understand.”  Curly’s voice was eager now.  “She’ll not escape me this time.  Gad, she’s a beaut!  But as wild as a hawk.”

“An’ so ye think ye’ll corner her, eh?” There was a peculiar note in Samson’s voice which Reynolds was quick to detect, but which Curly missed.

“Just you wait an’ see,” the latter reminded.  “That old cuss thinks he’s got a regular Gibraltar behind those hills with his lousy Indians.  But I’ll show him a thing or two.”

“Ye’ve never been thar, have ye?” Samson queried.

“Never.  But the bird comes out of her nest sometimes, ye know, an’ then——­”

“You’ll be the hawk, is that it?” Samson asked as the other paused.

“Oh, I’ll be around,” Curly laughed.  “One doesn’t run across the likes of her every day, an’ she’s the gold I’m really after.”

“Wall, all I kin say is this,” the prospector replied, as he rose slowly to his feet, “that ye’d better be mighty keerful, young man.  That Giberalter, as ye call it, is guarded by a lion that ain’t to be fooled with.  He’s got claws that reach from sun-up to sun-down as several smarter ones than you have found out to their sorrow.  Leave him alone, an’ he’ll bother nobody.  But interfere with that lass of his, an’ the hull north won’t be big enough to hide ye.  That’s my warnin’, an’ if yer not a fool ye’ll heed it.”