  The story of the aged recluse, Timmie, was soon told. After his companion Gordon Duncan had left him, more than twenty years before, the caribou had come and a fresh supply of provisions was at hand. That spring too, other prospectors had come up the river. In return for his services as a guide, they had supplied him with white man’s food. As the years passed, he had given up hope that Gordon Duncan would return; but even so, he guarded their secret well. Ever a lover of nature and her solitary haunts, he was content to dwell alone at the foot of the smoking mountains. Every year, as the winter’s snow melted away, as the honking geese passed above the rivers and a million flowers bloomed, he had shouldered pick and pan to begin one more search for the mine of green gold. “I never found it,” he whispered as, buried deep in warm deer skins, he told his story. “But yonder on the raft, just as I was carrying it, you will find the green gold, every piece. Every piece. Just as we found it so many years ago. “Take it, Gordon Duncan.” His whisper came from deep in his throat. “For many years I have prized and guarded it. Now it must be entrusted to your hands. I am soon to pass to that happy land where there are no spring torrents, no snow, no cold, no smoking mountains and no night.” “No! No!” said Faye Duncan, pressing his hand. “You are going to find health in the spring sunshine. We will carry you from this dreary land to the place where yellow roses bloom and the air is heavy with the fragrance of daffodils.” Timmie read the distress in her tone. He smiled and said no more. Yet he knew what he knew, and was content. “But why did you run from us?” Gordon Duncan asked. A pained, puzzled look came over the face of the aged recluse. “I do not know. I am growing old. When one is old he becomes afraid of many things.” The hoard of green gold on Timmie’s raft was indeed a great treasure. Johnny, who had traveled much and knew the value of such things coming from a very remote past, reckoned their value in many thousands of dollars. One day, two weeks later, having buried Timmie among the hills he had loved so long, bidding an affectionate farewell to their Indian guides and the strange hunchback, the party of three, Gordon Duncan, Faye and Johnny, put off from shore in a new dugout which their friends had made for them. Three days later, as they drifted down the silent river which was now quite free from ice, to their great surprise they caught the distant drum of an airplane. Straining their eyes, they saw it at last just clearing the mountains to the north. Imagine their surprise when it went out of sight behind the timber not five miles from where they were. When, two hours later, on rounding a bend in the river, they sighted the camp of more than a hundred white men, their joy knew no bounds. Soon enough they were told of a fresh gold strike on these upper reaches of the river. The passenger airplane which was bringing men into the country was to start on the return journey in two hours. It was nearing the lunch hour now. They might have dinner at the outskirts of the white man’s land if they liked. Their decision was quickly reached. After a royal feast of white man’s food, they bundled their precious relics of green gold aboard the plane and, climbing in, sailed away. A week later Johnny stood in the doorway of a cabin. Before the cabin yellow roses bloomed and the air was laden with the scent of spring blossoms. Beside him stood Faye Duncan. No longer garbed in the dull brown and gray of the trail, but in a gay red dress, she was the picture of health and beauty. Much had been done in these days. A mystery had been cleared up and a fortune assured. From Faye’s own lips Johnny had learned the secret of their hiding away in the north woods so many weeks before. Her grandfather was to have been a witness in a murder trial. He believed the man being tried was innocent, yet he realized that his own testimony would go far toward convicting him. In order to avoid being called as a witness and in order to give time for hot anger to cool and the real culprit to be found, he had hidden away in the forest. “But now it is all more than right,” Faye had said with tears of joy in her eyes. “The real murderer has confessed; the other man is free.” Gordon Duncan had sold half the green gold for a sum large enough to make him comfortable for life. Timmie’s half he had given to a museum, there to remain as a monument to his lost comrade. Faye and Johnny stood in the doorway watching the sunset fade. Never before had Johnny been so tempted to give up the life of a wanderer and settle down. And yet— “Letter for you,” said Gordon Duncan. Coming up the path, he handed it to Johnny. The boy read the letter with interest. It was from Curlie Carson. Perhaps you have read about him. Johnny had heard of him. In this letter Curlie proposed that the two of them join in a daring enterprise. Would Johnny go? Would he? When one frank, daring, straight shooting adventurer says to another of his kind, “Come, let’s go,” the answer is sure to be, “Lead on.” “But I’ll be back,” Johnny said to the ruddy-cheeked Scotch girl as he bade her goodbye next morning. And who can say he will not? If you wish to read of the adventures entered into by Johnny Thompson and Curlie Carson, you’ll find them all written down in a book called, “The Rope of Gold.” |
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