He too was a victim of the "yellow fever." It had lured him from his far-away home amidst the northern pines of Maine. It had proved stronger than the pleadings of his aged father and mother, stronger than the love of his sister and younger brother. He had left them all to chase up this glittering phantom; and now, for the first time, his eyes rested upon the substance of his dreams by day and by night. Little wonder, then, that his heart beat fast and hard, that his brain throbbed hotly and his eyes gleamed with a wild light--with the long smoldering fires of greed that might waken to avarice. The little pebble lay in his palm, looking innocent enough. Its dull surface was scratched and cut here and there, as if by a knife-point. If gold, the nugget must be very pure. "Hellow, old boy, what ye thinkin' so soberly 'bout, eh?" suddenly uttered a not disagreeable voice, as a heavy hand was placed upon Burr's shoulder, and a heavily-bearded face met his startled gaze. Wythe started, and the nugget fell from his hand. Hastily he snatched it up, and thrust it into his pocket, but not before the keen black eyes of the new-comer had fallen upon it. In his agitation Burr did not notice the quick, suspicious flash that lighted up the man's face, else he might have used more caution. "What is it to _you_, Nate Upshur?" and Wythe shook the hand from his shoulder, with a gesture of dislike. "My thoughts are my own, and none the more agreeable for you thrusting yourself in upon them." "You speak sharp words, youngster, but best weigh them better. You're not in the States, now, where a man's afeard to take up a cross word for fear o' the courts. Take a fool's advice, an' give a civil answer to a civil question, or you _may_ chaince to run foul o' a snag, one o' these long-come-shortlys." "And I hold myself ready to accommodate _you_, whenever you feel inclined to try it on, Nate Upshur. I hope that is plain enough for your comprehension," contemptuously added Burr, turning away. Upshur bit his lip fiercely, and fingered the brass-bound butt of the revolver at his waist, but made no attempt to draw it. "Fer little I'd--but never mind, now. But I _would_ like to know whar he got that--if it _was_ gold." As the broad red disk of the full moon rose above the eastern swell that night, it shone down upon a peculiarly weird and impressive scene in the little timber-grove beside the creek. It was a burial in the wilderness. Beneath a wide-spreading cottonwood tree the grave had been dug. And now, gathered round the spot, with bowed and uncovered heads, stood or knelt every member of the wagon-train, listening to the broken, sobbing words of the bereaved husband, Mr. Mitchell. His daughter, Lottie, was beside him, pale and care-worn, bearing up against the blow with a fictitious strength that threatened to give way at any moment.