It was rank folly attempting to reason with Tyrrel, and his comrades, well knew that. So parting--none of the trio dreamed of the time that would elapse before their meeting!--they each bent to their work. The trail ran lengthwise along the valley, only divided from that where lay the golden bed by a high ridge. Duplin and Wythe were heading south-east; the trail followed by Tyrrel was in an opposite direction. "I think I can tell just how this will end," muttered Burr, after progressing a mile or more. "I think we will find the stopping-place on yonder point, where we can look down upon our camp. If so, we must hasten back, and join Jack. The hot-headed fellow may get into trouble." A few minutes more proved their surmise to be correct. The trail doubled at the hill, and then ran back for a ways, side by side. The friends had no difficulty in retracing their steps, and advanced at a half run. The damp earth had retained deep tracks. In ten minutes they had regained the point where Tyrrel had left them, and still hastened after him. Then they paused, simultaneously uttering a low cry. "Too late!" gasped Duplin. Faint and indistinct came to their ears, borne by the favoring breeze, two quickly succeeding pistol-shots, closely followed by a cry, as of pain or mortal terror. These sounds came from up the valley. Clutching their weapons, the friends bounded forward at top speed, their faces pale, their teeth tightly clenched. They feared the worst. "My God! look there!" gasped Wythe, extending one trembling hand. Before them, close to where the rocks that thickly covered the hillside began, the ground was torn and trampled, as though the scene of a desperate struggle for life. And upon one side of a whitely bleached bowlder was a large crimson stain. A stain that could only be produced by _blood_! Sick and faint the comrades stood there, wildly glancing around, listening anxiously for some sound to guide them. But it came not. All was stilled save their deep, husky breathing. "Come," cried Duplin, with an effort rousing himself, "this is folly. We must work. Dead or alive, we must find Jack, and either rescue or _avenge_ him." Dreading lest at every step they should come upon the dead and mangled body of their friend hidden among the rocks, the gold-hunters advanced. Here and there a blood-splash guided their eyes. Drop by drop it led them up the hillside. This alone guided them. The flinty ground retained no trace of footsteps. A gore-stained rock attracted them. Rushing forward, Duplin uttered a low cry. Then he sunk upon his knees and bent forward. Burr Wythe turned sick at heart, and staggering, would have fallen but for the friendly support of a jagged bowlder. A cry broke from his lips as he started back and removed his hand. It had entered a tiny pool of fresh blood! CHAPTER VI. LOST IN THE LABYRINTH.