"Heavens, no!" Tavernake answered. "Who would be? What is there
in New York to make up for this?"
Pritchard was silent for a moment.
"Well," he said, "one of us must be getting back near
civilization. The syndicate will be expecting to hear from us.
Besides, we've reports enough already. It's time something was
decided about that oil country. We've done some grand work
there, Tavernake."
Tavernake nodded. He was lying on his side and his eyes were
fixed wistfully southward, over the glimmering moonlit valley,
over the great wilderness of virgin pine woods which hung from
the mountains on the other side, away through the cleft in the
hills to the plains beyond, chaotic, a world unseen.
"If you like to go on for a bit," Pritchard suggested, slowly,
"there's no reason why you shouldn't take McCleod and Richardson
with you, and Pete and half the horses, and strike for the tin
country on the other side of the Yolite Hills. So long as we are
here, it's quite worth it, if you can stick it out."
Tavernake drew a long breath.
"I'd like to go," he admitted, simply. "I know McCleod is keen
about prospecting further south. You see, most of our finds so
far have been among the oil fields."
"Settled," Pritchard declared. "To-morrow, then, we part. I'm
for the valley, and I reckon I'll strike the railway to Chicago
in a week. Gee whiz! New York will seem good!"
"You think that the syndicate will be satisfied with what we have
done so far?" Tavernake asked.
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