“Come, be a man, Jim,” I said,“we’ve got to look the thing in the face; there’s no two ways about it. I shall go to Arizona Bill’s claim and see what he says. Anyhow I’ll leave word with him what to do when we’re gone. I’d advise you not to try to see Jeanie; but it you will you must, I suppose. Good-bye, old man. I shall make my way over to Jonathan’s, borrow a horse from him, and make tracks for the Hollow as soon as I can. You’d better leave Jeanie here and do the same.”

Jim groaned, but said nothing. He wrung my hands till the bones seemed to crack, and walked away without a word. We knew it was a chance whether we should meet again.

I walked on pretty quick till I came to the flat where Arizona Bill and his mates had their sluicing claim. There were six of them altogether, tall, wiry men all of them; they’d mostly been hunters and trappers in the Rocky Mountains before the gold was struck at Suttor’s Mill, in the Sacramento Valley. They had been digging in ‘49 in California, but had come over when they heard from an old mate of a placer diggings at Turon, richer than anything they had ever tried in America.

This camp was half a mile from ours, and there was a bit of broken ground between, so that I thought I was safe in having a word with them before I cleared for Barnes’s place, though I took care not to go near our own camp hut. I walked over, and was making straight for the smallest hut, when a rough voice hailed me.

“Hello! stranger, ye came darned near going to h--l with your boots on. What did you want agin that thar cabin?”

I saw then that in my hurry I had gone stumbling against a small hut where they generally put their gold when the party had been washing up and had more than was safe to start from camp with. In this they always put a grizzled old hunter, about whom the yarn was that he never went to sleep, and could shoot anything a mile off. It was thought a very unlikely thing that any gold he watched would ever go crooked. Most people considered him a deal safer caretaker than the escort.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” drawled Sacramento Joe. “Why, what’s doin’ at yer old camp?”

“What about?” said I.

“Wal, Bill and I seen three or four half-baked vigilantes that call themselves police; they was a-setting round the hut and looked as if they was awaiting for somebody.”

“Tell Bill I want him, Joe,” I said.