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. Heeding the wise caution of his comrades, he took the habit of
wearing the ring only at night. Wrapped in his blanket, he stealthily
slipped the golden circlet over his little finger, and, as he averred,
"slept all the better for it." Whether it ever evoked any warmer dream
or vision during those calm, cold, virgin-like spring nights, when even
the moon and the greater planets retreated into the icy blue, steel-like
firmament, I cannot say. Enough that this superstition began to be
colored a little by fancy, and his fatalism somewhat mitigated by
hope. Dreams of this kind did not tend to promote his efficiency in the
communistic labors of the camp, and brought him a self-isolation that,
however gratifying at first, soon debarred him the benefits of that hard
practical wisdom which underlaid the grumbling of his fellow workers.
"I'm dog-goned," said one commentator, "ef I don't believe that Cass
is looney over that yer ring he found.
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