Whiskey Dick. The dull glaze which seemed to veil the outer world from
the drunkard's pupils shifted suddenly with such a look of direct horror
that Demorest was fain to turn away his own. But the veil mercifully
returned, and with it Dick's worked-up sense of injury. Nobody was
there--not "a shole." Did Demorest think if there had been any of
his friends there they would have stood by like "dogsh" and seen him
insulted?

Demorest turned away and re-entered the cabin as Dick lurched heavily
forward, still muttering, down the trail. The excitement over, a
sickening repugnance to the whole incident took the place of Demorest's
resentment and indignation. There had been a cowardly attempt to rob
them of their miserable treasure. He had met it and frustrated it in
almost as brutal a fashion: the gold was already tarnished with blood.
To his surprise, yet relief, he found his partners unconscious of the
outrage, still sleeping with the physical immobility of over-excited
and tired men. Should he awaken them? No! He should have to awaken
also their suspicions and desire for revenge. There was no danger of
a further attack; there was no fear that the culprit would disclose
himself, and to-morrow they would be far away. Let oblivion rest upon
that night's stain on the honor of Heavy Tree Hill.

He rolled a small barrel before the opening, smoothed the dislodged
earth, replaced the pan with its treasure, and trusted that in the
bustle of the early morning departure his partners might not notice any
change. Stopping before the bunk of Stacy he glanced at the sleeping
man. He was lying on his back, but breathing heavily, and his hands were
moving towards his chest as if, indeed, his strange fancy of the golden
incubus were being realized. Demorest would have wakened him, but
presently, with a sigh of relief, the sleeper turned over on his side.