Johnny was absent,--probably still hunting for the gold, Rawley thought, as he grinned to himself. After so long a time spent wholly in service to others, with the weal of his country always in the front of his mind, the search for his grandfather’s gold mine seemed a shade less important than it had been two years ago. He had the Bible and the old diary with him, but that was partly to please Johnny Buffalo and because he thought the books might be interesting to Peter. For himself he had not much hope of finding the cleft in the rocks; for Johnny Buffalo the quest would be a wholesome object in life. Johnny Buffalo would continue the search from no selfish motive, but in a zeal for Rawley’s welfare. There was a difference, Rawley thought, in the way you go at a thing. He left a note for Johnny on the table and went on down the hill and back into the trail to the river. At the edge of the basin he stopped and surveyed the somewhat squalid huddle of buildings, wondering why it was he felt almost as if this were a home-coming. Perhaps it was a fondness for his Uncle Peter, and because Nevada had kept the place fresh in his mind with the letters she had written him. Two strange dogs were added to the hysterically barking pack that rushed out at him as he drew near. Five children instead of four grouped themselves and stared. Gladys appeared in the open doorway of her cabin; a fatter Gladys, with another baby riding astride her hip. The tribe of Cramer was waxing strong. He was sure that Gladys recognized him, but with the stolidity of the race which dominated her nature, she merely stared and gave no sign of welcome. Rawley kicked a dog or two that seemed over-serious in their intentions and kept straight on. When he reached the hard-trodden zone immediately before the cabin, he lifted his hat and spoke to Gladys. “Hullo,” she grinned fatuously. “We don’t see you for a long time.” Anita came to the door, looked out and nodded with an imperturbable gravity that always disconcerted Rawley. He asked for Peter and Nevada. Peter was at work, Gladys told him vaguely. And the clicking of a typewriter in the rock dugout told him where Nevada might be found. Rawley was amazed, almost appalled at the agitation with which he faced her. In the press of his work, of meeting strange people and seeing strange places, he had thought the image of Nevada was blurred; a charming personality dimmed by distance and the urge of other thoughts, other interests. But when he held her hand, looked up into her eyes as she stood on the step of the porch, he had a curious sensation of having been poignantly hungry for her all this while. He found himself fighting a desire to take her in his arms and kiss her red mouth that was smiling down at him. He had to remind himself that he hadn’t the right to do that; that Nevada had never given him the faintest excuse to believe that he would ever be privileged to kiss her.