He went to the edge of the black water and waded out until it rose to his knees, his eyes staring into the blackness.
“What is it?”
He, too, pointed with one arm, and the madman gave an excited gesture. Then he placed his hands funnel-shaped to his mouth, as Rod had often seen Wabi and Mukoki do when calling moose, and there burst from him a far-reaching cry, and Rod's heart gave a sudden bound as he listened, for the cry was that of a woman's name!
“Dol—o—res-s-s-s—Dol—o—res-s-s-s—”
The cry died away in distant murmuring echoes, and with an answering cry Rod shouted forth the name which he fancied John Ball had spoken.
“Dolores! Dolores! Dolores!”
There came a sudden leaping plunge, and John Ball was at his feet, clasping him about the knees, and sobbing again and again that name—Dolores. Rod put his arms about the old man's shoulders, and the gray, shaggy head fell against him. The sobbing voice grew lower, the weight of the head greater, and after a little Rod called loudly for Mukoki and Wabigoon, for there was no longer movement or sound from the form at his feet, and he knew that something had happened to John Ball. The two Indians were quickly at his side, and together they carried the unconscious form of Ball within the circle of torch-light. The old man's eyes were closed, his claw-like fingers were clenched fiercely upon his breast, and not until Mukoki placed a hand over his heart did the three know that he was still breathing.
“Now is our time to get him to camp,” said Wabi. “Lead the way with the torch, Rod!”
There was not much weight to John Ball, and the two Indians carried him easily. At the fall the rubber blanket was wound about his head and the adventurers plunged under the cataract with their burden. It was an hour after that before the old man opened his eyes again. Rod was close beside him and for a full minute the mad hunter gazed up into his face, then once more he sank off into that strange unconsciousness which had overcome him in the cavern. Rod rose white-faced and turned to Mukoki and Wabigoon.
“I'm afraid—he's dying,” he said.
The Indians made no answer. For several minutes the three sat silently about John Ball watching for signs of returning consciousness. At last Mukoki roused himself to take a pot of soup from the fire. The movement seemed to stir John Ball into life, and Rod was at his side again, holding a cup of water to his lips. After a little he helped the old man to sit up, and a spoonful at a time the warm soup was fed to him.
Through the whole of that day he returned to consciousness only for brief intervals, lapsing back into a death-like sleep after each awakening. During one of these periods of unconsciousness Wabi cut short the tangled beard and hair, and for the first time they saw in all its emaciation the thin, ghastly face of the man who, half a century before, had drawn the map that led them to the gold. There was little change in his condition during the night that followed, except that now and then he muttered incoherently, and at these times Rod always caught in his ravings the name that he had heard in the cavern. The next day there was no change. And there was still none on the third. Even Mukoki, who had tried every expedient of wilderness craft in nursing, gave up in despair. So far as they could see John Ball had no fever. Yet three-quarters of the time he lay as if dead. Nothing but soup could be forced between his lips.
On the second day Wabi revisited the subterranean world beyond the cataract. When he came back he had discovered the secret of the treasure in the pool. The gold came from the cavern. The soft sand through which they had followed the strange light was rich in dust and nuggets. During the floods of spring water came into the cavern from somewhere, and flowing for a brief space out through the mouth of the cave brought with it the precious burden of treasure-laden sand which was dumped into the pool. The constant wash of the cataract had caused most of the sand to overflow into the running stream, but the heavier gold-dust and nuggets remained in the trap into which they had fallen.
But the joy that came of this discovery was subdued by thoughts of John Ball. The gold meant everything to Rod, the realization of his hopes and ambitions; and he knew that it meant everything to his mother, and to all those who belonged to Mukoki and Wabigoon. But the gold could wait. They had already accumulated a small fortune, and they could return for the rest a little later. At present they must do something for John Ball, the man to whom they were indebted for all that they had found, and to whom the treasure really belonged. On the third day Rod laid his plans before Wabi and Mukoki.
“We must take John Ball back to the Post as quickly as we can,” he said. “It is our only chance of saving him. If we start now, while the water in the creek is deep enough to float our canoe, we can make Wabinosh House in ten or fifteen days.”
“It will be impossible to paddle against the swift current,” said Wabi.
“That is true. But we can put John Ball into the canoe and tow him up-stream. It will be a long wade and hard work, but—”
He looked at Wabi in silence, then added,
“Do we want John Ball to live, or do we want him to die?”
“If I thought he would live I would wade a thousand miles to save him,” rejoined the young Indian. “It means little to us but work. We know where the rest of the gold is and can return to it within a few weeks.”
If there had been a doubt in the boys' minds as to the right course to pursue John Ball settled it himself that very afternoon. He awakened from an unusually long stupor. His eyes were burning with a new light, and as Rod bent over him he whispered softly, but distinctly,
“Dolores—Dolores—Where is Dolores?”
“Who is Dolores, John Ball?” whispered the white youth, his heart thumping wildly. “Who is Dolores?”
Ball drew up one of his emaciated hands and clasped it to his head, and a sobbing moan fell from his lips. Then, after a moment, he repeated, as though to himself,
“Dolores—Dolores—Who is Dolores?”
The Indians had come near, and heard. But John Ball said no more. He swallowed a few spoonfuls of soup and fell again into his death-like trance.
“Who is Dolores?” repeated Wabigoon, his face whitening as he looked at Rod. “Is there somebody else in the cavern?”
“He is talking of some one whom he probably knew forty or fifty years ago,” replied Rod. But his own face was white. He stared hard at Wabigoon, and a strange look came into Mukoki's face.
“Dolores,” he mused, without taking his eyes from Wabi. “It's a woman's name, or a girl's name. We must save John Ball! We must start for Wabinosh House—now!”
“While he's unconscious we can tie the rope about him and hoist him into the upper chasm,” quickly added Wabigoon. “Muky, get to work. We move this minute!”
It was still two hours before dusk, and now that they had determined on returning to Wabinosh House the adventurers lost no time in getting under way. Wabi climbed the rope that was suspended from the upper chasm, and that part of their equipment which it was necessary to take back with them was hoisted up by him. Mukoki sheltered the rest in the old cabin. John Ball was drawn up last. For an hour after that, until the gray shadows of night began settling about them, the three waded up the shallow stream, pulling the canoe and its unconscious burden after them. That night the madman was not left unwatched for a minute. Mukoki sat beside him until eleven o'clock. Then Wabi took his turn. A little after midnight Rod was aroused by being violently pulled from his bed of balsam boughs.