“I go to Death Valley,” he continued, slowly, in his deep voice. “I had left enough gold to grub-stake me. An’ I go to Death Valley, but not to seek my fortune. It will be quiet and lonely there. An’ I can think an’ rest an’ sleep. Perhaps I’ll dig a little of the precious yellow dust, just to throw it away. Gold!... The man who loves gold is ruined. Passion makes men mad.... An’ now I must go.” “Death Valley? No! No!” whispered Adam. “Straight for Death Valley! It has called me across half the earth. I remember no desert place so lonely an’ silent an’ free. So different from the noisy world of men that crowds my mind still! There I shall find peace, perhaps my grave. See! life is all a hopin’ to find! I go on my way. Wansfell, we never know what drives us. But I am happy now.... Our trails have crossed for the last time. Good-by.” He wrung Adam’s hand and quickly whirled to his burros. “Hehaw! Gedap!” he shouted, with a smack on their haunches. Adam whispered a farewell he could not speak. Then, motionless, he watched the old prospector face the gray wastes toward the north and the beckoning mountains. Adam had an almost irresistible desire to run after Dismukes, to go with him. But the man wanted to be alone. What a stride he had! The fruitless quest had left him that at least. The same old rolling gait, the same doggedness! Dismukes was a man who could not be halted. Adam watched him--saw him at last merge and disappear in the gray, lonely sage. And then into Adam’s strained sight seemed to play a quivering mirage--a vision of Death Valley, ghastly and white and naked, the abode of silence and decay set down under its dark-red walls--the end of the desert and the grave of Dismukes. CHAPTER XXV The November morning was keen and cold and Adam and Genie were on their way to spend the day at Andreas Canyon. Adam carried a lunch, a gun, and a book. Genie seemed so exuberant with wonderful spirits that she could scarcely keep her little moccasined feet on the sand. Adam had an unconscious joy in the sight of her. A dim old Indian trail led up one of the slopes of Andreas Canyon, to which Adam called Genie’s attention. “We’ll climb this some day--when it comes time to take you away,” said Adam. “It’s a hard climb, but the shortest way out. And you’ll get to see the desert from the top of old Jacinto. That will be worth all the climb.” His words made Genie pensive. Of late the girl had become more and more beyond Adam’s comprehension--wistful and sad and dreamy by turns, now like a bird and again like a thundercloud, but mostly a dancing, singing creature full of unutterable sweetness of life.