Taking the absence of Max and Len as a holiday, Sandy locked the tunnel entrance, pulled the house-door shut (it never had a lock), and started off on a long tramp up the mountain, within an hour after his partners left the cabin. He carried his rifle, intent upon both game and glory, for apart from the desire for fresh venison in the larder, he thought it would be a fine thing to go back some day to Scotland and tell how, single-handed, he had met and killed a grizzly bear on some snowy pinnacle of the wild Sierra San Juan.

He walked far and reached a great elevation. He looked abroad upon magnificent pictures, shot an elk and some smaller animals, and had a variety of interesting experiences, though he got no nearer a grizzly{94} than to catch sight of one on the further side of an impassable chasm. But these adventures do not come into our story, which was resumed in his surprising experiences that afternoon.

Turning homeward, when warned to do so by the declining sun, he was caught in a thunder-shower, which, at the great altitude where it encountered him, meant a deluge of sleet, hail, and most uncomfortably cold rain. Drenched, sore and shivering, Sandy made his way as rapidly as he was able down toward the crest of the cliff under which the cabin was sheltered. In the foggy condition of the air,—to those in the valley this fog was a rain-cloud,—and in his weary and half-dazed state, he passed beyond the point where the faint trail led down the precipice; but early discovering his error, turned back, creeping slowly along the brink of the ledge in search of it.

He had scarcely begun the search, however, when he was startled by the sound of{95} human voices. The first thought was that his partners had come back. The next instant, however, he perceived that the voices were strange to him, and with cautious curiosity he crept stealthily to the bushy brink and peered over the low cliff.

He found himself squarely above the entrance to the Aurora, which was hardly fifty feet beneath him. Three rough men were standing on the dump in front of the tunnel, trying to open the door, but it stood firm under their pulling. They tried some keys, but none would fit the lock, and Sandy grinned as he thought of something his grandfather used to say,—“Lock your door that you may keep your neighbor honest.”

“Let’s smash it!” exclaimed the smallest of the three, whom we know to be Stevens.

At the sound of his voice Sandy pricked up his ears; he was sure it must be the same man who had spent a night at their cabin a few days before, and stolen the knife. He{96} could not see their faces, however, because of his position and their slouched hats.

“No,” objected the tallest, whose voice also seemed vaguely familiar to the listener—“No, we don’t want ’em to know we’ve been here; leave no traces to set ’em a-watching. We musn’t disturb nothing, and we must get out o’ here as soon as we can, so’s not to be caught prospectin’ their trail. What we want is to surprise ’em some fine mornin’, when they aint lookin’ for no visitors, drop on ’em like a gobbler on a June-bug. ............