THE CURTAIN falls, shutting out our view of Tom, as, day by day, he wends his slow way from the great barren plains west of the Mississippi valley toward the modern Golconda.

He had been fortunate in joining a company of emigrants, who treated him kindly, accepting his company as welcome, for he was the only boy in the party, and to more than one he brought to mind boys of their own left behind in homes far east.

He feared that Wanuka, angry at his desertion, would pursue him, and perchance attack the party to which he had joined himself. But Miantonimo prevented that. Indian boy as he was, he was a true and unselfish friend, and repressed the sadness and loneliness which he felt for the sake of the white boy whom he had learned to love as David loved Jonathan.

The curtain rises disclosing a different scene.

We see a valley hemmed in on nearly every side by high mountains. Tall pines, straight as a flag-staff, rise here and there. Bowlders, projected above the earth’s surface by some former upheaval, dating back thousands of centuries it may be, dot the slope of the hills and the shelving valley, and this is probably the reason why the place received years since, and still bears, the name of Rocky Gulch.

It is not uninhabited now, for there is a small village. Most of the houses are occupied by miners, for the treasures of the place are not exhausted.

In one of these cabins, rude enough in its construction, live two men whom we have met before.

That tall figure, in a rather close-fitting suit, with an old sombrero crowning a head and covering a face which evidently belonged to a man of thought and culture, must surely be Dr. Lycurgus B. Spooner, physician and wanderer by profession. And that other figure, shorter, stouter, broader-shouldered, surmounted by a bronzed, honest face, can belong to none other than Peter Brush.

Together they sit in the twilight, which comes earlier in the shadow of the hills, at the door of their humble residence, smoking clay pipes at the close of their day’s labor.

For a time they are silent. Then Mr. Brush lays aside his pipe, and turning to his companion, says, slowly:

“Doctor, I don’t know why it is, but to-day I’ve been thinkin’ more than usual of poor Tom.”

“So have I, friend Brush. I don’t know why it is, but when I was at my work, his image kept rising before me.”

“How long have we been here, doctor?”

“Three months to-day, friend Brush.”

“And we haven’t heard anything of Tom in all that time.”

“It was hardly to be expected. There isn’t any post-office where he is, and if there was, he would not know where to direct to us.”

“I hope the poor boy has come to no harm.”

“That wasn’t likely unless he made an attempt to escape. The Indian boy—what was his name?”

“Miantonimo.”

“Yes. Well, he had such a fancy for Tom that he would be sure to have him treated well. It was very strange,” continued the doctor, meditatively, “almost like a romance.”

“It beats any romance I ever read,” said Peter Brush. “Doctor, I mistrust that Tom would try to escape sooner or later, and would most likely be caught and——”

Peter Brush gasped a little, and did not try to finish the sentence.

“He wouldn’t try to escape if he didn’t have a fair show, friend Brush. Tom is a smart boy; I didn’t know him long, but I found that out.”

“Yes, he’s a mighty smart boy. Now, supposin’ he did escape, what then?”

“What then? He would come here. When you told me his story, I made up my mind to that, directly. Tom set out on a mission, to clear up the mystery of his father’s disappearance. It was here that his father was robbed, and perhaps murdered. You may rely upon it, friend Brush, that he would come here just as fast as his legs could bring him.”

“I know you said that. That was why we came here.” “To be on the ground when he came—precisely. Well, friend Brush, we haven’t made any mistake in that. We’ve made it pay.”

“That is true. We stumbled upon a rich vein, which wasn’t to be expected after the place had been ransacked for years. I reckon that between us we have taken out six thousand dollars.”

“About that.”

“If Tom comes here, I will divide with him. He sha’n’t suffer any loss for stayin’ behind.”

“I have a different proposition to make, friend Brush. You say we have six thousand dollars?”

“As near as I can calc’late,” answered Peter.

“Then suppose we divide that into three portions—one for you, one for me, and the other for Tom.”

“Agreed, pard. But it’s hardly fair that you should give up part of your findings.”

“Why not?” asked the doctor sharply. “Do you mean to insinuate that Tom isn’t my friend, as well as yours?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then, friend Brush, it appears to me that you are talking nonsense. I claim the right to help Tom if he joins us.”

“I’m afraid it’s no use talkin’, doctor,” said Peter Brush, in a dispirited tone. “Poor Tom may be scalped and murdered for all we know.”

“I don’t believe it, friend Brush,” said Lycurgus B. Spooner, energetically, “and I wish you wouldn’t call up such disagreeable ideas. It’s no joke being scalped, I tell you.” “I s’pose it isn’t.”

“I know it isn’t, and I claim to be good authority on that point, for I’m one of the four men who were submitted to that little surgical operation and still live. I don’t care to think of any of my friends being operated upon in like manner.”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, but, doctor, how long is this thing goin’ on?”

“Is what thing going on? Be a little more explicit, friend Brush.”

“I mean, how long are we goin’ to wait here for Tom?”

“Do you mean that you are tired of waiting for him?”

“No, I mean nothing of the kind. I mean that if you will stay here I will go back and try to find him.”

“Among the Indians?”

“Yes.”

“But why am I to stay here?”

“So that if the boy comes there will be somebody left to receive him.”

“How long have you been thinking of this, friend Brush?”

“For a week or more. I will leave all the gold-dust with you except, maybe, a few hundred dollars’ worth to pay expenses. If I don’t come back, you can keep it for yourself and Tom.”

“Wouldn’t it be better, friend Brush, for me to go and leave you here?”

“No; I don’t believe I could stand it. I want to be lookin’ for Tom myself.” “Let it be so, then. When do you wish to go?”

“To-morrow.”

“Very well. I shall feel lonely without you, but you are probably better adapted to the business.”

While they were talking some one had come near. It was a boy—the picture of a penniless tramp, with the clothes almost literally falling off from him—a veritable ragamuffin, yet clean, bright-eyed, and with cheeks of a healthy brown. His face was fairly glowing with the joy of an unexpected discovery, as he rushed to the pair with the speed of a young whirlwind, and with hands outstretched, he exclaimed:

“Mr. Brush—doctor—don’t you know me?”

“Why, it’s Tom!” exclaimed honest Peter Brush, almost beside himself with joy. And he seized our hero, and gave him a bear-like hug. “Are you really alive?”

“I sha’n’t be long if you squeeze me like that!”

“Tom,” said Dr. Spooner, “I am just as glad to see you as our friend Brush, but I won’t show it in the same way.”

“Not to-night, at any rate.”

“Is your scalp all right, Tom?” asked Brush, anxiously.

Tom laughed, and pulling off a ragged and dirty hat, displayed an ample crop of chestnut hair.

“And now, Tom, tell us all about it,” said the doctor. “How did you get away, and what adventures have you had?”

“One question first, doctor. Have you got anything to eat? I haven’t tasted food for twelve hours.” “To be sure we have,” answered Brush, “and plenty of it. Sit here with the doctor, and in ten minutes you shall have supper.”

“Brush is chief cook this week, Tom,” explained Dr. Spooner. “It is well for you that he is, for my genius doesn’t lie in that direction.”