The result was a dozen vague surmises,--only one of which seemed to be popular, and to suit the dyspeptic despondency of the party,--a despondency born of hastily masticated fried pork and flapjacks.

The ring was believed to have been dropped by some passing "road agent" laden with guilty spoil.
"Ef I was you," said Drummond gloomily, "I wouldn't flourish that yer ring around much afore folks.

I've seen better men nor you strung up a tree by _Vigilantes_ for having even less than that in their possession." "And I wouldn't say much about bein' up so d----d early this morning," added an even more pessimistic comrade; "it might look bad before a jury." With this the men sadly dispersed, leaving the innocent Cass with the ring in his hand, and a general impression on his mind that he was already an object of suspicion to his comrades,--an impression, it is hardly necessary to say, they fully intended should be left to rankle in his guileless bosom.
Notwithstanding Cass's first hopeful superstition, the ring did not seem to bring him nor the camp any luck.

Daily the "clean up" brought the same scant rewards to their labors, and deepened the sardonic gravity of Blazing Star.

But, if Cass found no material result from his treasure, it stimulated his lazy imagination, and, albeit a dangerous and seductive stimulant, at least lifted him out of the monotonous grooves of his half-careless, half-slovenly, but always self-contented camp life.