The perspiration streaming from his face, and the dust gathering about his countenance, gave him a strange and unnatural appearance, such as is noticed upon the faces of the restrictionists, when engaged at their hideous labor; but still he toiled on, silent, grim, and determined. But the old trapper tired at last, and paused so exhausted that he could scarcely stand, and was unable to resist Teddy O’Doherty when he took the pick from his hand. “It comes aisy to me, as I can swing it the same as a shillaleh.” His voice sounded like that of another person, and the attempt at jocularity was terrible from its very ghastliness. But Teddy swung the pick like a master of the business, and the fire glanced and flew, as the pieces were chipped off from the stones and rocks. At first the work was comparatively easy, but it did not last long. The pieces were chipped off with greater difficulty, and were much smaller in size; but they were none the less rich, and the sack was gradually filled with its auriferous richness. The fire was kept burning brightly, and by and by their task was finished. The three had loaded themselves down with the ore, until they had all they could hope to carry away with them. Their wealth was now in their hands, and it only remained for them to transport it to where it could be made available. They ceased from their toil and prepared to return home. “Afore we go,” said Black Tom, “I’ll take a look outside.” “What fur?” asked Teddy, in surprise. “To see whether thar’s any ‘sign.’” “But Hammond is there, ain’t he?” “Yas, but there ain’t no telling what mought have tuk place while we’ve been peggin’ away inside.” As Hammond was much less experienced in frontier life than they, the others saw the cause of Black Tom’s misgiving. The stealthy Blackfeet might have stolen upon him unawares, and, having silently slain him, as their race had often done under similar circumstances, might be lying in wait outside until the trappers should walk into the ambush. So it was arranged that old Stebbins and Teddy O’Doherty should remain where they were, or rather should retreat into the darkness of the cavern, and await the return of their comrade from his reconnoissance. Black Tom moved away with the silence and stealth that had characterized his approach to an Indian camp, frequently pausing and listening for some indication of the danger that he feared menaced them; but nothing reached his ears, save the dull, faint murmur of the stream behind as it rushed through its narrow cañon. It seemed to have lighted up somewhat on the outside since they had entered the cavern, as he managed to discern the faint outline of the opening, partly screened as it was by its peculiar conformation. “I guess every thing is all right,” he said, as he crept through the opening.