Up, up, up, with Jenny digging in her toes, snorting and puffing and picking her way over the roughness of the worn rocks. Occasionally there was a brief level spot where one might stop and pant and rest. Indeed, this was a hard trail for anybody, man or beast, and Terry felt considerable sympathy for the laboring ox-teams and the straining horses that drew the jolting, groaning wagons.
The outfits descending seemed to have almost as difficult a time, for the wagons, their heavy brake-shoes smoking and their boughs dragged behind, enveloping them in dust, threatened to run over the teams.
But it was a stirring scene, although whether any of the people coming down were bringing gold could not be learned amidst such racket and confusion.
Part way up another friend was encountered. He was the wheel-barrow man, halted to breathe so as to be able to push his barrow to the next resting place.
Tough sledding, he wheezed, as he sat upon his barrow handles and wiped his brow with a bandanna handkerchief. "Wust yet, but I'm bound to get there."
They left the wheel-barrow man behind. At every turn they expected to see the summit beyond, but the climb required over an hour and a half of steady work.
Here, on the top, they were high above Table Mountain.
Whew! gasped Harry. The top was flat, and they drew aside, while they rested. Everybody halted here to rest. It was a fine view. Down below, whence they had come, was the trail, with other outfits zig-zagging up; and farther was the trail along Clear Creek, and farther, the Platte River; and farther, the plains, and Cherry Creek, and Denver and Auraria, all wonderfully sharp in the perfectly transparent air. The people at the foot of the trail and beyond looked like pigmies, and the wagons like toys.
Before, the trail stretched across the mountain top and appeared to aim straight into a tremendous wild country of much higher mountains, timbered with evergreens and capped with snow.
The gold-seeker companies were again starting on.
Do we reach Gregory gulch today? inquired Harry, of a returning party.
No, sir; not by a long shot. 'Tisn't any use, anyhow. Every foot of ground is taken up. There are two thousand people in that gulch already, and the same in the other gulches. The Gregory folks have the best claims. Nothing left for us later comers.
The trail continued to follow a high ridge, amidst pines and bright flowers and grass; crossed icy cold streams where the ridge dipped; and by night had arrived nowhere in particular. So camp was made, the pleasantest camp of the whole trip from the Big Blue valley, because the air was so fresh and pure, and the water and wood abundant, and the grass so sweet for Jenny.
I reckon we're getting into the Promised Land, hazarded one of the Extra Limited's neighbors.
The next noon the mountain divide seemed to have been crossed; for at one side, far down, was Clear Creek again, like a silver thread traversing a dark seam that was a canyon. About two miles ahead it divided, and over the north branch hung a thin bluish film of smoke. The sounds of ax and hammer and ringing pick—yes, the faint sound of voices—drifted up.
Gregory Gulch? That must be it, under the smoke, for the procession was hastening, and presently down, down, down they all plunged, for the bottom where the north branch of the creek glimmered. This trail was as steep as the zigzag trail on the east slope. The wagons used boughs as drags; oxen and horses held back hard; and Jenny, bracing her forefeet, slid and pitched and grunted. Faster and faster they all moved—could not stop—until in twenty minutes they fairly tumbled, one after another, into the water and the mouth of Gregory Gulch!
Well, I should say she was crowded! exclaimed Harry.
He and Terry gazed, consternated. Gregory Gulch extended westward from the North Clear Creek; it was narrow and quite long, and all up and down the creek and as far as eye could see up the gulch, people were swarming like bees, while the newly arrived gold-seekers looked on, bewildered.
Tents had been erected, cabins were rising, bough lean-tos served as other shelters; men were feverishly delving with spades, washing out the dirt in their pans, or dumping dirt and water into wooden boxes that rocked like cradles; and other men were searching the bottoms and slopes for vacant spots and there hurriedly driving in stakes. A few women were in sight—one woman was helping her husband dig; several were sitting in doorways or trying to tidy their premises.
No wonder that the newly arrived people were bewildered. Some grew gloomy at once and discouraged, but some waxed the more excited.
First thing is to find a camping spot, proposed Harry, briskly. "And then to find our mine."
How'll we find it? asked Terry. "Where is the gold? I don't see any."
This is Gregory gulch, is it? queried Harry, of the nearest miner—a red-headed, red-stubbled little man squatting in mud to his ankles beside a trickling stream, and twirling a gold-pan. He was muddied all over his tattered trousers and red shirt, and also to his elbows.
It is; at laste it's the Gregory diggin's. He spoke with a strong Irish brogue.
Have you found lots of gold? invited Terry.
Oi? Not a cint, b'gorry—an' here's another empty pan. As if in disgust the little man straightened up and surveyed them. "But that's not sayin' Oi won't. Oi've got a foine claim right under me feet. Did yez jist get in? Would yez like to buy a nice claim?" He eyed them shrewdly with his twinkling eyes set in his grimy, sweaty face.
Not yet, thank you, responded Harry. "Where's the gold?"
Gold? Faith, all yez got to do is foind it. Sure, ain't it here in Gregory gulch, an' don't yez see all the people diggin'? Didn't Gregory an' five men take out $972 in wan week from their vein, an' afterward sell for $2,100 an' lend the men who bought it $200 so they could go ahead?
Where are they? Where is that vein?
Up yonder on the side o' the gulch; but yez can't get annywhere near it, for the people an' the stakes. They don't want visitors. Jist drive your stakes where yez can, an' begin work. My name's Pat Casey. What might yez be called?
They told him.
Well, Oi'll see yez ag'in, boys, promised Pat, grasping his spade to refill his pan. "Who knows but in a few days we'll all be rich together?"
All right, Pat, laughed Harry. So they left Pat engaged with his spade, hoping to strike it with the next pan full.
They toiled along, eyes alert for a camping spot. A tent bore the sign: "Groceries for Sail." Another was announced as "Miners' Hotel"—although where it slept its guests was a problem. Another tent, through the flaps of which might be glimpsed a woman, stated: "Back East Biscuits."
Dinner of course was a hurried affair. Other gold-seekers were still descending the hill and spreading out wherever they could. So no time was to be lost. They each slung on a gold-pan by means of a thong tied through a hole in the rim; and with pick and spade (Shep staying to mount guard) they sallied forth.
I reckon, mused Harry, "we'll have to do like the rest do: scout about and whenever we see a goldish-looking spot, try it out."
Dad showed us how to work a gold pan. I don't suppose we've forgotten, panted Terry, as they hustled.
Yes, but he didn't show us how to find the gold, reminded Harry. "We ought to locate near water."
For an hour they trudged up and down, and never sunk a spade or tried a pan. All the creek and all the side streams seemed occupied. Once they halted and were just about to dig, when a voice bawled: "Get off my ground!"
Excuse me, apologized Harry. The owner of the voice was some distance away. "Is this your claim?"
You bet you! The best claim in the diggin's.
How big is a claim? demanded Harry.
Well, a hundred feet by fifty and as much more as I can get. Now vamoose.
They "vamoosed."
Two thousand people, claiming a hundred feet and as much more as they can get, doesn't leave much room for the rest of us, sighed Harry.
Hello, there! hailed another voice, more cheery. It was the "Root Hog or Die" professor. He also was equipped for mining, but he appeared to be a wanderer like themselves.
Have you struck anything? asked Terry, as soon as they had shaken hands.
Not a sign. Have you?
No. Can't find a place to dig in, even.
This prospecting is more of a science than I had thought, confessed the professor. He looked tired out. "I've been at it since morning. I had an idea the gold would show on the surface."
So did we, admitted Terry. "But the ground all looks alike—just common dirt!"
Yes, even where they're actually washing gold out, said the professor. "I've seen some gold, though. I saw one miner with a pan that gave about a dollar and a half, and I saw a clean-up in a sluice that netted eight dollars."
What's a sluice? One of those wooden troughs?
Yes; but lumber for them is hand-sawed and costs a dollar a yard, and people are asking as high as a thousand dollars for a claim. I believe it's cheapest to hire somebody to locate a good claim for a fellow. The Russells and Gregory and some others who have had experience are hiring themselves out at $100 a day, I understand. There goes Green Russell now.
A hundred dollars a day! Whew! gasped Terry.
Captain Green Russell halted in passing.
Got here, did you? he greeted, in friendly fashion. "Made your fortune yet?"
We may be standing on it, for all we know, answered Harry.
For all you know, you may, drawled Mr. Russell. "That's the trouble. The people come in here, like they do at Cherry Creek, and think the gold shows at grass-roots. But Gregory didn't find his lode by any pure luck, and the rest of us old-timers are here to teach the folks how, if they want to learn."
Could you put me on a good claim? inquired the professor, eagerly.
Yes, sir; I'll prospect for you at $100 a day. You'd save time and probably money.
All right. I'll go with you and we'll talk it over. And on strode the professor and his instructor.
Hum! remarked Harry. "The secret of making money is to have something the other fellow will pay for: sometimes that's goods, and again it's knowledge."
The gulch really was a fascinating place. Such a hive of industry—saw and hammer at work, as well as pick and spade; but amidst it all there seemed to be no place for the Extra Limited. A general disappointment was in the air, with so many persons working hard and as yet getting nothing.
We'll travel 'round to Pat, quoth Harry, after a time. "He may have struck something by this."
As they approached Pat, he suddenly uttered a loud whoop, and danced a jig. His neighbors dropped their tools and rushed for him.
Sure, Oi'm rich! cheered Pat. "There's gold in my pan! Hooray! Rich Oi am. Half o' yez can look at a time till yez all are done, an' the other halves kape away so yez won't carry off me gold on yez feet."
Yes, in the bottom of Pat's pan was a trace of yellow, not to speak of a pebble about the size of a pea which he proclaimed to be gold also.
Scarcely hearing the congratulations, Pat fell to work again.
Jiminy! protested Terry. "We've got to stake out a claim somewhere, and have a mine ready for dad and George. Let's go clear up the gulch."
Pat's success was encouraging, at least. But as up the gulch they went, the crowd was no thinner, and presently Harry stopped.
This pick and shovel weigh a ton, he said. "And so do my feet. I vote we knock off work, quit locating gold and try to locate supper. First thing we know it'll be dark and we can't find even Jenny and Shep."
W-well, agreed Terry. "And tomorrow we'll start out again early. Wish I knew just what kind of dirt had the gold in it."
That, quoth Harry, "evidently is the secret."
Scarcely had they turned to retrace their steps when another call hailed them. Somebody was running for them, from the other side of the gulch. He was a slim, muddy figure, in boots and trousers much too large for him, with long hair flapping on his bared head.
They paused and stared.
Aren't you the Pike's Peak Limited fellows? panted the boy.
Why, Archie Smith! Hello, Archie!
I thought it was you, but I wasn't sure. Archie was completely out of breath, and very red in his thin cheeks. He panted and coughed. "What are you doing? Prospecting? Have you struck anything? Do you want a claim?"
We're looking 'round. No, we haven't struck anything yet, they answered. "Have you? How long have you been here?"
Do you know of any good place to claim? added Terry.
Yes. And you won't have to drive a stake! When did you get in? Where's your camp?
Down yonder somewhere. We got in this morning.
Gee, but I'm glad to see you, panted Archie. "Hurrah! Let's go to your camp and move your stuff. What you got? The cart? Didn't buy a tent, did you?"
No. We came in with just the mule. Expect we'll fix up a bough hut till we strike it rich, explained Terry.
No, you needn't. You're to stay on my place. I've got a cabin and a stove and—and—— here Archie lowered his voice, "boys, I've struck it rich, myself! I've got the best claim in these diggin's!"
You have! How long have you been here?
About two weeks. Come on and I'll tell you about it. Do you know anything about mining?
No, they confessed, ruefully.
I didn't, either, admitted Archie, as together they pressed on for Jenny and Shep and the packs. "So I bought a claim. There was a man here who couldn't stay—he had to go down to Denver; and I bought his claim for only $500. First I'd prospected for myself, and didn't find anything, and then I came across him just in time. Gee, I was lucky. He wouldn't have sold, only he was obliged to get out. Of course, I panned samples of it before I bought, and in the very first pan there was four dollars' worth of gold! He sold me his cabin and stove and everything. Boys——" and Archie's voice sank again, "you may not believe it, but I've already taken out near $80, by myself, and I can't dig very long at a time, either."
How'd you pay for it? blurted Terry. "Did you have the money with you?"
Yes. Our outfit had put in $200 apiece, for the trip across the plains, and we'd spent only half, and I carried that because I was treasurer. I paid for the stage ride from the station, though; but in Denver I worked at the hotel—and—and I nursed a gambler who was sick, and when he found out that I'd studied medicine he said I'd saved his life and he gave me $250 as a doctor's fee. But I'm not a regular doctor yet. Now you fellows are to come and work the mine. It's named the Golden Prize, and it's yours!
Harry stopped short. Terry scarcely could believe his ears.
What? challenged Harry.
Aw, get out! scoffed Terry.
But it is, insisted Archie. "I've been just praying that you'd come along. I didn't really save that gambler's life, though he was right sick. But you saved mine; and if he thought what I did was worth $250, I reckon what you did was worth three or four times that because you risked your lives, too. And anyway, I can't stay. It's too high for me up here. I lose my breath. I feel a heap better down on the plains, and I guess I'll go back home for a spell. If I don't give the mine to you somebody'll jump it. There isn't anybody up here I can trust."
But, great Cæsar! expostulated Harry. "We'll work it, if you want us to, while you're gone. We won't accept it forever, though."
I should say not! affirmed Terry. "We can find our own claim."
No, you can't. The trained miners are the ones who find the best ground, and you're not trained. All right: you can work it just as if it were your own, and you can have all you find till I come back.
Cracky, but that will make us rich, won't it? cried Terry.
Of course it will. I've taken $80 in four days and I tell you I've just dug a little bit. It tires me all out to dig; and the water's so far. But you fellows can put in a sluice—I'll lend you enough dust to buy boards with, if you haven't enough——
We've got a little, and if we haven't enough we'll dig out more, declared Harry, quickly.
And with a sluice running you can just pile up the yellow!
Whoop-ee! cheered Terry, wildly. "We're rich at last."
The Golden Prize property appeared to be a very snug proposition. It was located about a mile up Gregory Gulch, and right in the midst of things. There was a good enough dug-out, set partly into the slope at the bottom of one of the rocky hills in the gulch, with log walls surrounding the single room and a sod roof. It contained a rusty stove (better than a fireplace) and a bunk and a slab table and a slab stool, all on a dirt floor. The cooking utensils were hung on the wall. The door, of split logs, like puncheons, swung by leather hinges and fastened with a wooden pin and latch-string.
But the mine of course was the most important. That was really the first thing to be inspected. Archie showed it rather proudly, although it did not look very imposing, being only a deep trench into the hillside just beyond the cabin.
Down the shallow side draw that helped to form the hill ran a small stream of muddy water, which finally joined the main drainage stream, below.
You see, said Archie, "I have to carry all my dirt to that stream so as to wash for the gold, and, gee! but it's hard work. About breaks my back. The digging and the climbing up and down are too much for me. A fellow ought to lead the water nearer, some way."
Why didn't you? asked Terry.
I did think of digging a ditch, but that's an awful job, and I'd have to squat with a gold-pan just the same. I suppose if I'd stayed here I'd have built a sluice or hired one built. I couldn't build it myself, because the boards are too heavy to handle. And anyway, I want to go out. I can't breathe up here. I don't feel as good as when I came in, and mostly I just sit and puff. I felt lots better down on the plains. If I can't work the mine, what's the use in having it? But I'd a heap rather give it to you fellows than sell it to strangers.
We won't take it, but we'll work it for you, on shares, again asserted Harry.
Archie stubbornly shook his head—and his thin cheeks were crimson.
Nope. You can share together but you can't share with me. You work it and keep all you find; I owe it to you. I'm so tickled I can hardly see.
Where do we begin? cried Terry, excited. "Which is the best spot, Archie?"
I'll show you in the morning. I'll show you everything, panted Archie, "before I go. We'll wash out some color, anyway."
We'd better get our stuff unpacked before dark, Terry, reminded Harry. "The mine will keep. We know it's there. Whew, but this is a big stroke of luck. Doesn't seem as though we'd earned it."
Dusk settled early in the gulch, and by the time they had stowed their stuff away, and Jenny had been turned out to browse among the rocks and pines on the hillside, most of the camps in the gulch had ceased their work of the day and had changed to the work of the evening. Smoke was welling from chimneys and from open fires, far and near; wood was being chopped and men and women were cooking. The gulch suddenly seemed cheerful and homelike: a miraculous contrast with the dark timber rising above on all sides, where the wild animals, bear and bobcats and elk and wolves, probably sniffed in astonishment.
Harry made a big batch of flap-jacks and a pot of coffee; Shep curled in a corner and snuggled for comfortable sleep; the air outside was chill, but within was warm, and a candle that Archie produced gave light enough to eat by.
Archie was awarded the bunk, for a good rest. Harry and Terry spread their beds on the floor. They were used to sleeping on the ground, but Terry found it hard to go to sleep. He wanted to talk—he fairly itched to be out with spade and pan, digging gold from "their" mine. Think of it! A mine, a genuine gold mine, at last! Now they could pay his father back easy, and also show him and George how to get rich.
I know how you feel, said Archie, from the bunk. "They say that when Gregory discovered his lode after tracing it for miles, and found four dollars in his first pan, he kept his partner awake till three o'clock in the morning, talking, and he was still talking at breakfast time."
Wonder how he discovered it, hazarded Terry.
He just started in on lower Clear Creek, at the Platte, and kept panning, and panning, on up, until above this gulch the gold quit. Then he turned into this gulch, because it seemed to yield the most color, and the gold was the coarsest, and he kept panning and panning until the color quit again. Then he knew he'd come to the place where the gold below was washed from. So he went back to the Platte and got a partner; and they sized up the natural lay of the gulch, at the highest spot where the color had quit—and they struck rich diggin's with the very first spadeful. That was the sixth of May. After they'd located a lot of ground for themselves and their friends the news got out, and now look at the mob!
Well, I'll bet we've got something just as good, declared Terry, confidently.
Immediately after a hurried breakfast they started in to pan their own claim, under the direction of Archie.
I've always found the most gold in that spot there, he instructed. "There was another spot, where I panned first, but it's quit on me. Expect, though, you'll find a lot of 'em. Let's dig and try out some of the dirt in our pans."
Into the spot Terry plunged the spade. The dirt was gravelly and soft—two strokes of the blade were more than enough to loosen sufficient for the three pans. The pans were sheet-iron and about the size and shape of a large milk-pan. In a moment they three were trailing down to the little creek, each with some two inches of the dirt in the bottom of his pan. They squatted to fill the pans with water, and carefully twirled to slop it out again along with the dirt that ought to float off.
This was an anxious process. Archie finished first, because he was in practice.
I didn't get anything this time, he announced, gaily. "But I don't care. I'm going out."
Terry's dirt had practically all flowed off. He picked out the bits of gravel—they were only pebbles and flakes of rock. He peered for yellow—yes, there it was! A glint mingled with a seam of coarse sand.
I've got some! he yelled. "See here? I've got some!"
Archie looked in.
That's right. Let me finish it for you. I'll flirt that sand out.
So he did, with a dexterous twirl that sent part of the sand out and the rest against the sides, and left the heavier yellow in the middle.
Reckon I've landed a little, myself, remarked Harry.
He had! Perhaps a trifle more than Terry, and the two pans together weren't enough to cover the point of the knife-blade with which they scraped the yellow up and carefully deposited it in Father Richards' old buckskin bag, brought for the purpose.
Gold's worth $21 an ounce and that's about a pennyweight, I guess, encouraged Archie. "Ninety cents—but it's a beginning. Of course, where you dug I'd been digging before. You'll find a better place. You see, I've already taken out $80. So go ahead and keep panning, and I'll travel."
Archie had arranged to leave with a wagon outfit who were disgusted because they'd discovered nothing. The two new proprietors of the Golden Prize stopped operations long enough to bid him good-bye, and watch him trudge away, his pack on his back.
When you want some of your gold, come back or let us know, called Harry, after.
It's all yours, he retorted. "That's why I bought the mine."
Jiminy! exclaimed Terry. "That's big pay for what little we did—just giving him a drink of water and toting him in a cart."
The next few pans didn't yield anything at all; then Harry made a "strike," as he called it, and scraped out as much yellow as would cover a finger-nail. He'd got the dirt from a new spot, "for luck," and from the same spot Terry managed to extract about as much.
We'll have to try about, counseled Harry, "until we find spots like those of Archie's. We've got a lot of space yet."
As Archie had said, this digging and panning was hard work. At every stroke the spades clinked against rock—a boulder or a ledge—and to chip away with a pick was about as bad. And then, to trudge back and forth with the pans! But Harry hit upon the idea of dumping the dirt upon a piece of gunny sacking and thus carrying several spadesful at a time, to be panned.
They scarcely stopped for dinner, and by evening had greatly widened the trench. When they knocked off for supper and sleep the buckskin sack was apparently as flat and as light as in the early morning, and they were mud from soles to waist. But nevertheless, the sack contained gold! Peeking in, one might see it!
We'll have to get a pair of scales, proclaimed Harry. "And we'll have to go about this more scientifically. Panning's too slow."
How much did we find, do you think? invited Terry.
Five dollars' worth, maybe—and we're hungry enough to eat five dollars' worth of grub. But that's all right. We're just starting in, and we own all the ground from the cabin to that little creek, and from half-way up the hill down to the bottom. Hooray! He grabbed Terry and they war-danced, while Shep barked gladly.
I'd rather dig gold than potatoes, wouldn't you, now? demanded Terry. "We're liable to make a hundred dollars 'most any day. We haven't done much more than scratch."
What do you want for supper? asked Harry. "Let's celebrate with antelope steak and apple pie."
Sure! cheered Terry. "We don't have to save on grub."
They were sitting down, on the stool and the edge of the bunk, to a sumptuous supper, when a step and a grunting sounded outside, Shep growled, and into the half-open doorway was thrust an inquiring face. It was the red face of Pat Casey.
Good evenin' to yez, he proffered, blinking.
Come in, come in. Glad to see you. Sit and have a bite. And Harry changed from the stool to the bunk-edge beside Terry.
Pat, muddy like everybody else, clumped in, agrin.
Sure, Oi've had my supper, but Oi'll set a bit, he answered. "Oi've been a-lookin' for yez. An' are yez at home already?"
Yes, sir-ee, pronounced Harry, triumphantly. "Here we are."
An' have yez located? 'Tis the sick boy's property, ain't it? Oi saw him goin' out this mornin'.
All ours now, till he comes back again; cabin, claim, everything.
And we're to have all we find, added Terry. "We've panned over five dollars already and we're only learning. He took out $80, but there's the whole claim left yet: tons of it! We're going to put in a sluice and do a lot other improving and fix things up right."
B' gorry, mebbe yez have a bonanzy, congratulated Pat. "Gold is where yez find it. Oi've washed out a matter o' wan dollar an' sixty-siven cints meself, but didn't Oi tell yez we'd all be rich together, some o' these days?" He sniffed and gazed over the table. "Faith, is that a pie? A genuyine pie?"
That's what. Have a piece, Pat?
'Tis wan thing Oi can't refuse, admitted Pat, modestly. "'Specially apple pie."
Harry cut him a generous piece, and having dissected it with his knife into large mouthfuls, he accepted the invitation to finish the half; Harry and Terry ate the other half.
Ye made it? he inquired, of Harry. "Glory be! Sure, now, Oi wish ye were in the business. Couldn't ye make me a pie, occasional? Oi'll pay ye two dollars apiece annytime."
Can't promise that yet, Pat, laughed Harry. "But whenever we have a pie you're welcome to help us eat it."
Not me, protested Pat. "A rale apple pie is worth two dollars of anny man's money; an' if that ain't enough Oi'll pay ye more."
But of course pie was a small item in comparison with a gold mine that might yield $100 a day, under proper management. However, Pat lighted his short black pipe and spent the evening, and they all talked gold, gold, gold.
I think, said Harry, after Pat had left, with much good-will and another reference to pie, and the two partners prepared for bed, "that tomorrow we'll make a tour around the camp, to see what other folks are doing, and then we'll know how to go about it the quickest way. Panning is too slow for us."
When after breakfast they started out, "for (as Harry said) the latest wrinkles in getting rich quick," the gulch was already astir and at work. And a busy, inspiring sight it was, alive from side to side and apparently from end to end with cabins, completed or begun, some plank-roofed, some roofed with pine boughs; with dug-outs, tents, wagons, oxen, mules, and with men digging, burrowing, toiling at spade and pick, squatting over gold-pans, or manipulating the boxes set on rockers, while the few women were attending to dishes or hanging out the family washing.
Washing $3 a dozen, announced a sign in front of one tent.
The gulch was long and broken, and of course not half the sights were to be seen from any one point.
Let's walk up a piece, first, suggested Harry.
So they did, in confident manner. Only day before yesterday they had come in as tenderfeet—not knowing a thing and not owning a foot of ground. Now they were regular residents, actual miners, with a paying claim and a cabin, and might hold up their heads. The very dirt on their clothes proclaimed their rank. Terry felt like a wealthy citizen.
The man who evidently owned the claim next above theirs paused to greet them. He was another young man, with a blond beard, and a smile that disclosed white even teeth, and although he was roughly dressed in ragged red flannel shirt, belted trousers and heavy cow-hide boots, his chest, showing under his shirt, which was open at the throat, was very white, and now as he rested his foot upon his spade and shoved back his slouch hat, his forehead also was very white.
How are you, neighbors? he accosted. "Made your pile yet?"
No, sir, promptly responded Harry. "But it's right there waiting for us. All we've done is a little panning, and with proper development work we've got a bonanza."
We sure have, supported Terry. "We panned out five dollars in color, first thing. But that's too slow."
The man smiled good-humoredly.
You're in luck, then. He wiped his brow. "I haven't seen my color yet, but I suppose it's around in here somewhere. Anyway, I'm getting plenty of exercise. We're all crazy together. I expect I'm as crazy as the rest. You know what Virgil says—facilis decensus Averni, eh?" and he eyed Harry inquiringly. "Did you find that so?"
'Easy is the descent to Avernus,' eh? translated Harry. "Hum! Well, we did come down in here at a good gait. How we'll get out again is a question. But you must be a college man."
Yes, and also a preacher. 'Whom the gods destroy they first make mad' is another favorite reflection of mine, among these diggin's. Are you a college man, too?
Yes; University of Virginia.
I'm Yale. Glad to meet you. Well, it's a great place—all kinds of us jumbled and digging and sweating, talking gold and eating gold and dreaming gold, when most of us could accomplish more and make more where we came from.
I reckon the thing we don't know how to do always looks easier than the thing we do know how to do, reasoned Harry.
Exactly. But where are you bound for?
We're going to put in improvements, spoke Terry. "Do you know where we can get a sluice?"
Make it, if you can buy the lumber. But you'll have to stand in line and grab the boards as fast as they fall from the saw. By the way, you don't object to my using that water, do you? I'm not certain whether it's on your land or mine; it's pretty nearly between, as I figure.
We thought it was on our side, but use all you want, certainly, replied Harry.
They left the preacher to his digging and proceeded.
The farther they went up the gulch, the more intense seemed the fever for work, and the thicker the camps and people. Yes, and there was gold, too! Three men were operating a "rocker." This was one of those wooden boxes on rockers like a cradle; one man shoveled in dirt, another poured in water, a third rocked the box from side to side, and the water and dirt flowed out through a slot at the lower end.
The Golden Prize proprietors halted to watch. When the water and dirt had escaped, in the bottom of the box were to be seen several cleats nailed across, and caught against these cleats was gold! The men figured that there was eight dollars' worth right there!
Up here were a few sluices, too: the long troughs, also with cleats nailed across the bottom inside, to catch the gold as the water and dirt flowed over. Into some of the sluices water had to be poured by hand, but others led from streams and the water flowed through without having been dipped. The shorter sluices were called "Long Toms."
That's what we want, decided Harry. "A regular sluice, running right across our claim."
There's the wheel-barrow man! exclaimed Terry.
And so it was, standing in front of a tent which bore the sign, "W. N. Byers. The Rocky Mountain News," and nearby was a stake and a sign: "Central City."
They shook hands with the wheel-barrow man.
What's this? demanded Harry. "A town?"
Yes, sir! Mr. Byers has named it. It's the best location. Right in the middle of the Gulch.
Is he going to stay here?
Nope; but he's pushing things along. What's happened to you boys? You look as if you'd been prospecting.
We have, laughed Harry. "Haven't you?"
Yes, a little. And he suddenly called: "Hello, John. What's the matter down there?"
They've got wind of another strike, answered the man, striding on. He was a black-bearded man, and seemed very busy.
That's John Gregory himself, explained the wheel-barrow man. "The original boomer of this gulch. But watch the people pile out, will you!"
Yes; there's a big strike south of here, I understand, from the doorway of his tent spoke Mr. Byers himself: a stocky, pleasant-faced man, with a close-trimmed brown beard. The diggin's had as great a variety of beards and whiskers as it had of people.
So he was the pioneer newspaper man, was he—the man who had brought a printing-press, and a stock of paper already printed on one side at Omaha, clear from the Missouri River to Cherry Creek. But Terry was given scant opportunity to stare. Harry clutched him by the sleeve:
Come on, quick! I've got an idea.
Away they hastened, back down the gulch. Before, at the lower end, the confusion was increasing. Outfits were hurrying away—drivers swinging their lashes, men footing fast; camps were breaking, and on their claims miners and prospectors were shouldering pick and spade and pack and hastening after the procession now crossing the creek.
The movement spread up the gulch, communicated from camp to camp and claim to claim.
What'll we do? Get more land? puffed Terry.
No, no.
But the lower end of the gulch was not by any means deserted, as they arrived. It was mainly the frothy overflow that had bubbled out, and when the eddy had settled there appeared to be almost as many people as before. Even the claims which had been abandoned were being quickly re-occupied. However, Harry dashed to one man who had packed up and on his cabin was tacking a sign: "Keep Off!" while his partner waited.
Going to leave?
Mebbe so. Want to buy this claim? She's a humdinger.
No. But I'll buy your sluice. How'll you sell it?
That sluice? Seventy-five dollars.
Whew!
It's forty feet long, of three boards; that means 120 feet, and lumber's $300 a thousand feet and you have to put in your order a week ahead. With the props and the cleats and the nails there's over $40 of material in that sluice, and I reckon the labor of hauling and building is wuth the balance.
I'll give you $50, snapped Harry.
Sold. But hurry up. We can't wait long here to sell a sluice. There's too much doing 'round the corner.
Harry fished out three gold pieces—two twenties and a ten—and passed them over.
Better take it off this property quick or somebody else will, advised the man; and away he and his partner strode, for the strike in Bobtail Gulch just across a little divide south.
Lucky again! jubilated Harry—who, Terry saw, had been smart. "Cost a lot of money, but we couldn't have made it much cheaper ourselves and we'd have been held up waiting for boards. You sit on it while I go for Jenny. We haul the whole thing at once."
Maybe we could have got it for nothing, after they'd left, proposed Terry, with an eye to the general grab-all as various persons swarmed over the abandoned claims.
It wasn't ours, was it? retorted Harry. "But it is now." And he left at a fast limp.
He returned with Jenny, harnessed, and they triumphantly dragged away the sluice, carrying also the scissors props on which it had rested. Its joints indeed threatened to part, but by picking their path they arrived with it intact at the Golden Prize.
Their preacher neighbor greeted them with a wave of hand and came over to inspect.
Looks as though you were going right into business, he asserted. "I thought maybe you'd join the rush for Bobtail."
No, sir; we stick, assured Harry. "A bird in the hand's worth two in the bush."
Well, depends on the bird, answered the preacher. "Now, my bird's an old crow, I'm afraid, and if I could see a fat turkey in the bush I'd drop my crow pretty quick, like those other fellows."
After dinner Harry rather ruefully examined his money belt. It was flat and limp.
Ten dollars left, he said.
And our dust, you know, reminded Terry. "We've the five dollars we washed out, and we can wash out more whenever we want it."
Harry brightened.
That's right. We're rich. You can try panning again, this afternoon, and I'll go down to the grocery and lay in provisions and any other stuff we'll need, and then we can set up the sluice and pile up the gold. Get to have everything running before Father Richards and that George Stanton come in.
We can buy a claim for them, too, proposed Terry. "Or find one that's been left."
No crows, corrected Harry. "Turkeys only."
Terry went at his panning with enthusiasm, bound to make a showing. Panning was slow, but it was rather exciting because there always was liable to be something yellow right under your eye, if you looked close enough. Panning was a one-man job; you did it all yourself.
The preacher strolled over to watch.
How's the dirt paying now? he queried.
Pretty good. I've found some more, truthfully answered Terry. "About a dollar's worth, I guess."
A pinch, eh? How'd you like to take over my claim?
Haven't any money yet. I mean, we won't have money till we get the sluice to going.
I'll tell you what I'll do, proffered the preacher. "Just to make the transaction binding, I'll sell you the claim for your next pan. Preaching is my business, not mining, you see. If you buy my claim, then nobody can accuse you of jumping it."
All right, accepted Terry.
Play fair, now, laughed the professor. "Take your dirt from a good rich spot."
Spots looked mainly all alike to Terry. The hole where he had been digging was laying bare the hard rock, but he scraped up a quantity of dirt and loose splinters from a crevice——
You're giving me principally rock, aren't you? criticized the preacher, good-naturedly. "But let it go. I'll be game."
However, as the pan cleared and Terry threw aside the splinters, they both exclaimed. Yellow was plainly visible—and moreover there was a blackish, cindery fragment the size of a crushed hazel-nut that glinted and weighed suspiciously as Terry lingered in the act of tossing it away also.
Here! Hold on! And the preacher took it. "Nugget, isn't it? Fifteen or twenty dollars, I'll wager—and ten dollars more in flakes!"
That's a rich pan, boys, as I reckon, interrupted a voice, accompanied by crunching footsteps and a growl from Shep.
The speaker was a miner over six feet tall and broad in proportion—a veritable giant of a man, in clothes as rough as the roughest, and with a revolver at his belt. In his black-whiskered face his eyes were small and deep-set, and close together, or as close as an enormous nose would permit. He was carrying a sack on his shoulder, which he deposited in order to investigate the pan.
Yes, sir-ee. A $40 pan, countin' the nugget. Does all your dirt run like that?
No, sir; not yet, replied Terry. "But maybe it will when we sluice it."
Goin' to sluice, are you? The giant's close-set little eyes roved about inquisitively. "This your claim, is it?"
Yes, sir. This and the next one.
Where'd you get that lucky pan o' dirt?
From that hole.
The giant strode up, carelessly poked about in the hole with his boot-toe, filtered some of the dirt through his fingers.
You're down to bed-rock already, he pronounced, returning. "I calkilate you may have struck a leetle pocket, but I don't count much on these shallow slopes. Some gold ketches, most of it's washed down. He your partner?" and he indicated the preacher.
No, sir. My partner's down to the store.
Older'n you?
Some.
Waal, and the giant picked up his sack, "you'll have most of your work for nothin'. May strike an occasional pocket, an' may not. You've got one o' them pore locations. Mostly rock." With that he stumped on into the little draw down which flowed the side rivulet. Once he paused, to cast a glance behind at the stream and the waiting sluice; and then he disappeared around a shoulder up the draw.
We're no better off for his opinion, quoth the preacher. "Don't believe he's quite the style of a man I'd cater to, anyway. But our bargain holds, does it? I'll make you out a bill of sale."
Sure, manfully assented Terry, trying not to regret that this was the one big pan.
Harry presently arrived, laden with purchases.
Meat's fifty cents a pound, he panted. "We may have to eat Shep or Jenny. Flour's snapped up at $15 a sack, and milk's fifty cents a quart from the cows of some of the emigrants. Whew! Couldn't find any gold-scales; we'll do our weighing at the grocery store till the express office or post office is opened. Everything's payable in dust. But I invested in a treat for us; see?" and he produced a can of oysters! "That's our bank. The groceryman says oyster-cans are the popular things for holding gold, in the diggin's. It cost two dollars, but it'll be worth a heap more than that when it's full. I'm nearly strapped, though. Have you added much to our pile?"
Added the preacher's claim, blurted Terry, and 'fessed up. "It was a big pan, too," he concluded. "I've found only a little color since."
Color helps, encouraged Harry. "That will be a claim for George. Good! We can work both with the same water."
The preacher brought the bill of sale of the "True Blue" claim, as he had named it; and that evening they had him in to join them in making merry over the can of oysters. Harry thoroughly washed out the emptied can and set it aside to dry, for the "bank."
The "improvements" on the True Blue claim consisted of merely a few holes and a lean-to of pine boughs covered with a piece of ragged canvas. The preacher jovially carried away his personal belongings on his back; he was, as he expressed it, "traveling light."
Left in possession of both claims, the two partners decided to fill their oyster-can from the Golden Prize first, and they jumped into the work of setting up the sluice.
This proved to be a bigger job than it had appeared before being tackled. The sluice was heavy and had to be moved about by sections; and to place it conveniently and yet give it the proper slant, the ground had to be leveled or mounded or lowered; and a little dam had to be made, with a race or ditch to supply the water to the upper end of the sluice: and what with disconnecting, and shifting hither-thither, and re-connecting, and all that, two days were consumed.
There had been no time for panning, but now, at last, they might start in washing by wholesale, so to speak.
They lugged the dirt on gunny sacking to the sluice, dumped the dirt into the running water, and while Harry stirred it Terry followed down along the sluice to throw out the rocks and clear the riffles or cross cleats. A back-breaking and also muddy job this sluicing was, for the sackings of dirt were heavy and the sluice of course leaked at the seams and joints, so that the ground underneath was speedily soaked and made slippery by the constant trudging.
By noon the riffles were filled with gravelly mud, and Harry decided that they should be cleaned. So the water was turned off.
Now for the test!
I see yellow! I see yellow! asserted Terry, running from cleat to cleat, and eyeing the deposits against each; and indeed it did seem to him that the little dikes glistened roguishly.
You see more than I do, then, retorted Harry, rubbing his long nose. "What I see is more panning, after all, to sort that stuff."
They dug the lodged stuff out with their knives, and panned several cleatsful at a time. Harry found a nugget (small one); little by little the gold left in the pans increased (hurrah!), until, at the wind-up——
How much, do you think? demanded Terry, excitedly.
Mighty near an ounce, and the nugget besides; say $40. Harry's dirty face was abeam. "And we've washed as much dirt in half a day as we could pan by hand in a week. At this rate we'll soon have both claims skinned to the rock, and'll need others. But I reckon we can find 'em, or buy 'em."
Looks as though we were going to be powerful rich, doesn't it? said Terry, awed by the very thought. "We'll fill our oyster can."
Shucks! remarked Harry. "I saw one sluice where they'd cleaned up $138 in a day—but there were four men working it, and they had more loose dirt than we've got. Our dirt's mostly rock. Anyway, we'll lay aside that $100 we owe Father Richards and have something to show extra before he and mother and the Stantons come in."
However, the afternoon clean-up netted them, although they had dug the dirt from a deeper place which looked very promising, scarcely color! And when early, before breakfast, in the morning, Terry sallied out to survey about and plan for a big day, to his astonishment the rivulet was dry, except for a dribble!
He hastened back to the cabin with his eyes popping.
Our water's gone!
What!
It is. There's not enough to fill a tin cup!
Great Scotland! And setting aside the skillet and dropping his fork, Harry rushed out to see for himself.
Wonder if the blamed thing's drying up, he hazarded. "Well, we've got a pailful for drinking and cooking, anyway. And after breakfast we'll try to find out what's happened."
They had not yet explored the little draw down which the water drained; it was shallow and uninteresting; but they did not need to go far to find out "what had happened." Around the shoulder of the first bend they arrived at a branch draw on the other side of their low hill, and were in the midst of some more claims.
Water from a spring had been feeding the little draw and the branch draw both; but now a sluice had been set up, taking away so much that there was none left for the little draw.
Several men were at work with the sluice. They paid no attention to their visitors until Harry interrupted the nearest.
Look here. You men have taken our water.
The man turned around short. He was the giant who had commented on Terry's big pan and on the condition in general of the Golden Prize prospect.
What you talkin' about? he growled. "Who are you an' where you come from? Oh, it's you, is it?" he added, to Terry—and Terry had the notion that he had known perfectly well who they were and where they were from, before speaking.
Yes, answered Terry. "And this is my partner. You aren't leaving us any water for our own sluice."
You have all that comes, haven't you?
We haven't all that ought to come, though, answered Harry, a bit sharply because the giant's tone was decidedly rough. "You've dug the ditch to your sluice higher up than necessary, and it lowers the level of the spring so much that no water enters our gulch at all. The stream used to split, didn't it?"
Split nothin'. Trouble is, your gulch is runnin' dry. You ought to've figgered on that, now that the snow's all melted off and sunk in. Most of those little gulches dry up, come toward summer.
The stream used to split, and feed through this gulch, just the same, insisted Harry. "You can see the channel. I hold that we're entitled to a share of this spring. And if you'd move your ditch a foot or two we'd get enough, and you'd have plenty yourselves."
You're entitled to just what drains into your gulch, an' we're entitled to what drains into ours, growled the giant. "This water's in our gulch, ain't it—spring and all?"
I don't know that it is, by rights, retorted Harry. "The spring's pretty close to being at the dividing point. And anyway, we're not asking you for your water; we're asking for ours."
Now look-ee here, and the giant tapped his revolver butt: "By miners' law we're entitled to a share o' what water comes down our gulch, an' by miners' law you're entitled to a share o' what water comes down your gulch, alluz considerin' there's any to share. If your claim was wuth a picayune I'd advise you to hold on till next spring, when mebbe you'd get a leetle water again from natteral drainage; but as it ain't wuth a picayune I'd advise you to get off an' look elsewhar. Anyhow, you get off this ground mighty quick; for if you're huntin' trouble you'll find it in a bigger dose than you can handle."
It looks to me like a deliberate scheme to run us off, began Harry, hotly. But he checked himself. "Come on, Terry," he bade.
Did you see Pine Knot Ike? exclaimed Terry, as they returned, with heads up, to their own ground. "I did—he was down below, with another man."
Yes, I saw him. Back at their sluice again they stood undecided. Harry scratched his long nose and surveyed about. "Confound 'em! It's a dirty mean trick. If they'd change the head of their sluice ever so little we'd have enough water and so would they. But they've fixed it so that when they shut off to clean up the water all flows the other way. Let's see. We can get water for the cabin from that creek down below. Might pan with it, too—only we'd spend most of our time carrying the dirt down or the water up."
But when they went down to the creek, to investigate, they were curtly told by a camper there that his claim and others extended all along on both sides, and that they were entitled to the water themselves.
You can help yourselves to drinking water, and that's all, he granted. "I'm sorry, strangers, but if you're on a dry prospect I reckon you'd better get out."
Not yet! retorted Harry. "Not," he added to Terry, "as long as we can make pie! Come on. We'll find Pat."
They had not seen Pat Casey for several days. As they descended the gulch, it seemed busier and more crowded than ever. Five thousand people were here now, according to report, and all the surrounding gulches were thronged, also. Sluices were running, others were being set up—and the thought of their own dry, useless sluice, and the gold that must be waiting, and the way they had worked to prepare for getting it, made Terry half sick. His father would laugh, and George would be a pest. Yes, George would poke all manner of fun at them.
Pat wasn't where they had expected to find him.
Pat Casey? The red-headed Irishman, you mean? He's across yonder, and he's struck it rich. You'll find him over there, strangers, washing out $50 and more a day.
So Pat had moved. He was waist deep in a trench that showed signs of soon being a tunnel; and when from the brink they hailed him, he clambered out. All mud and perspiration was Pat.
B' gorry, Oi'm glad to see yez, said Pat. "Oi've been thinkin' o' yez, but what with gettin' rich Oi've no time for calls. Oi bought out the men who were gopherin' here, an' now the deeper Oi go the richer Oi am. Sure, yez are lookin' at a millionaire, 'most. An' how are things with you boys?"
They told him. Pat scratched his head.
Too bad, too bad. An' a dirty trick. But, faith, there ain't water enough to go 'round, an' that's a fact; not sayin', though, that they're actin' square, at all. For they ain't. Are yez in need? He winked. "Jist come into me house a minute."
He led them into his bough hut, and from underneath his bunk fished out an oyster can.
Heft it, wance, he invited.
It was heavy.
Help yourselves, lads, he insisted.
But Harry laughed.
Not yet, thanks, Pat. We've got a little to tide us along. What I want to know is, how's your appetite for pie?
Two dollars apiece for pie, an' two pies a day: wan for breakfast an' wan for supper; an' on Sunday wan for dinner besides, promptly answered Pat.
It's a go, pronounced Harry.
Will it take the both o' yez to make pie? queried Pat. "Sure, ye look like a husky boy," he said, to Terry. "Let your partner make the pies, an' ye turn your hand to helpin' me at the sluice. Oi need another good worker. Oi fired the wan Oi had only this very mornin' because he sat down too frequent. Oi'll give ye a dollar an' a half a day, an' ye can fetch down me pies."
That's a bargain, accepted Terry. "Wait till I get my spade."
When he and Harry arrived again at their own property they found the giant there. He was standing in their hole, and inquisitively poking about.
Here! What are you doing? challenged Harry.
No harm meant, apologized the giant. "But you're down to bed-rock an' that's a fact. Still, a man might wash out a little dust, from spots, I reckon, if he had the water. Now, the truth is we're sorry for you boys. You've put consider'ble time an' labor in on this prospect, an' we're willin' to do the right thing. How'll you sell?"
For how much? demanded Harry.
The property's no good to you; never would amount to anything great anyhow; it's too rocky. But I'll tell you what we'll do: We'll give you $100 for your claim, to save hard feelin's, an' we'll take the chance o' pannin' out enough when there's water, to pay us back. I expec' we'll lose, but we'd rather lose than have the hard feelin's. You get the hundred dollars an' the experience.
We'll keep the experience and the claim, too; eh, Terry? Harry answered. "And there's something you men can keep: you can keep off. What's that in your hand? A piece of our rock? drop it!"
Cock-a-doodle-do! jeered the giant. "Mebbe I picked up this rock here an' mebbe I picked it up somewheres else. But I drop it when I get ready. You crow mighty loud for a young rooster without any spurs."
The giant was standing confidently agrin, resting at ease on one leg, his hand on his hip—but he did not know Harry. With a single jump Harry had reached him, quicker than the eye could follow had jerked the revolver from its scabbard and at the same time with a twist of the foot had knocked loose the propping leg. The giant sat down with an explosive grunt, and Harry stood over, scarcely panting, revolver dangling in hand.
We wear our spurs on the inside, like a cat's claws, he said. "Now you sit there till you drop that piece of rock."
But the giant looked so ugly and menacing, as he glared about, that Terry flew to the cabin for the shot-gun. He was back with it in a jiffy—and the giant was already slowly rising to his feet. He had dropped the piece of rock.
'Tisn't wuth sheddin' blood for, he grunted. "Your hull property isn't wuth the lead in a bullet. But I admit you did for me mighty clever. Where'd you l'arn that trick?"
We're as full of tricks as you are, retorted Harry. "Here's your gun. You needn't keep him covered, Terry. He's going."
Then you refuse our offer, do you?
Yes. You can't buy even the privilege of walking across this land for a hundred dollars or a thousand dollars.
All right. You can squat here till you starve an' dry up, then. Mebbe you have the trick o' livin' on nothin', but I doubt it. I'd like to know that wrestlin' trip, though—I'll give you an ounce o' dust to show me.
No, you can't buy that, either, laughed Harry.
That preacher feller gone away? queried the giant, with a jerk of the head toward the True Blue claim.
Yes, said Harry, shortly. "He's quit."
With a calculating glance around, the giant stalked off. They watched him go. Harry picked up the piece of rock.
Wonder what he wanted of this, mused Harry. "It doesn't look any different from lots of the other rock. White quartz, I reckon, with iron rust in it. We could have given him a bushel of the same. He didn't find it lying loose, though. He cracked it off from somewhere. That's a fresh break."
They searched about curiously a minute for the source of the fragment. It was a smooth knob, the size of a large walnut, showing rusty white at the fracture.
We can't wash rock, anyhow, quoth Terry. "It just clogs up the sluice. We wash the dirt."
And we can't wash even that now. It seems queer, though, that that outfit would want to buy this claim after saying it's worthless. You didn't want to sell, did you?
No, stoutly declared Terry. "Not unless we have to, to pay dad back."
Not as long as we can sell pies and make day wages, at any rate, added Harry. "There are just as good ways of getting money as digging it out the ground. If those fellows bother us we've tricks for all their legs as fast as they bring 'em over." He stuffed the piece of rock into his pocket. "I'll keep this for luck," he said.
Harry alertly started in on preparations for his pie-baking; he had hopes of enlisting other customers than Pat. Terry shouldered spade and pick, and trudged off to help Pat.
He found Pat much excited.
Have ye heard the grand news? No? Why, sure, the great editor man, Horace Grayley, be comin' to the diggin's! He's on his way already—him an' other cilibrated citizens all the way from New York. The boys are arrangin' a rayciption for 'em tomorrow; an' b' gorry, 'tis mesilf will have the honor o' lettin' the great Grayley, who be the editor o' the New York Tribyune, wash the gold with his own hands from this very pit. Faith, if Oi don't make his pans rich for him my name's not Pat Casey.
When that evening Terry, wet and dirty and tired, went home, the word of the approach of Editor Horace Greeley and party had aroused much interest through the gulch.
He found everything ship-shape but quiet at the cabin, where Harry had baked several pies and a batch of bread and hung out some washing. A sign, of wrapping paper and charcoal lettering, now announced:
GREGORY GULCH BAKERY
Apple Pie
Bread, Etc.
Harry Revere & Co.
The Horace Greeley party arrived early the next morning, and breakfasted at the lower end of the gulch before proceeding upon an inspection of the diggin's. Their visit was deemed of the utmost importance, for, as Pat explained to Terry, they were here to see the gold with their own eyes and handle it with their own fingers, so as to print the truth in the New York "Tribyune."
Sure, whatever Horace Greeley said, the people would believe.
In order to make certain that the report would be a good one, it had been arranged to pilot Mr. Greeley to the richest of the claims, and invite him to wash from these for himself. Pat's was the lowest down and therefore the first—and now Pat seemed to think that the reputation of the gulch rested on his shoulders.
He had donned a fresh shirt, ahead of time, and evidently had tried to slick up generally. The water had been turned off from the sluice as if in preparation for a postponed clean-up.
Take it 'asy, directed Pat, when Terry, having delivered the two pies contracted for, was about to spring into the pit and begin the business of the day. "Let the sluice be, so His Honor can clane up some o' the riffles by himself. An' we'll jist be loosenin' the dirt a bit here an' yon, for the sake o' keepin' busy an' makin' the place convanyent for him."
In fact, Pat was so particular in "jist loosenin' the dirt a bit" that Terry suspected him of not wishing to soil his shirt.
Well, I'm thinkin' they're comin', pronounced Pat. "Out o' the pit with ye an' wash your hands an' face so ye'll be a credit to the gulch. Sure, ye might have put on a clane shirt yourself—but mebbe 'tis better wan of us looks like a hard worker."
Terry had a notion to retort that probably Harry was wearing the clean shirt; they had only three shirts for the two of them, and the extra ought to go to the cook, of course.
All around, the other miners were unusually busy, so as to impress the great Horace Greeley, but they kept an eye directed down the gulch. Now a party, on muleback, were drawing near. They numbered half a dozen, conducted by John Gregory himself, and a little squad of onlookers trailed behind.
Occasionally they stopped, to survey operations; Pat, pretending to dig, awaited nervously.
Mind ye, let me do the talkin', he cautioned, to Terry. "An' be polite to His Honor, yourself. He's a great man. An' in case Oi ask ye to dig, take your dirt careless loike from the corner beside that white rock, for the rock's a lucky stone."
The party halted at Pat's pit and gazed in, and Pat and Terry, pausing in their show of work, looked up. Besides John Gregory, there were in the party Green Russell and Mr. Williams, the stage company superintendent, and Editor William Byers of the Rocky Mountain News, and—yes, Mr. Villard, the Cincinnati reporter.
Terry did not know whether Mr. Villard would remember him, or recognize him, anyway, in those clothes, which were much worse than when worn in Denver.
This is one of our promising gulch claims, was saying John Gregory. And—"Good morning to you, Pat," he addressed. "How are things looking with you today?"
Foine, thank ye, John, assured Pat.
Come out a minute, Pat. Mr. Greeley, I want to make you acquainted with Mr. Casey, a leading citizen of the Gulch. And Mr. Richardson—Mr. Casey. And Mr. Villard—Mr. Casey. Pat, who had clambered out, removed his hat and rather bashfully shook hands.
So that was Horace Greeley, was it; the editor of the New York Tribune! He didn't look like an editor of a big paper such as the Tribune. Rather, with his square hat and his rosy face surrounded with a fringe of short white whiskers, and his roly-poly figure, as he sat his mule, his legs sticking straight out, he looked more like a church deacon or a prosperous "back East" farmer.
Mr. Richardson, who probably was that reporter for the Boston Journal, as spoken of by Mr. Villard in Denver, was a tall, wiry man with soft hat and full brown beard, and wore a Colt's revolver.
These gentlemen are out from the East, Pat, continued John Gregory, "to see if it's true that we're all starving hereabouts and that the gold is in our eye. Mebbe you've no objection to their doing a little investigating on their own account down in your hole there."
Faith, Oi'd be proud if their Honors would touch their fingers to me dirt, asserted Pat. "Would they loike to get down in, or shall Oi pass a bit up to 'em?"
Mr. Greeley and Mr. Richardson and Mr. Villard dismounted and peeked in.
About how much are you washing out a day, Pat? invited Green Russell.
Oh, a hundred dollars a day, more or less, dependin' on the clane-ups, answered Pat.
Upon my word! exclaimed Mr. Greeley, adjusting a pair of spectacles, the closer to peer. "I was scarcely prepared to find that a fact."
You're ready to make a clean-up, I see, spoke Mr. Byers. "Suppose you show Mr. Greeley and these other gentlemen. How long will it take?"
A matter o' two hours, replied Pat. "But would His Honor loike to try a pan, first? Sure, a pan or two from the pit, an' a couple from the riffles—that's a fair tist."
Yes, I believe I should like to see the evidences of a pan, declared Mr. Greeley.
There's no need of His Honor gettin' down in, averred Pat. "It's no place for the feet of a gintleman. Terry, me lad, pan a spadeful, will ye, an' show Mr. Grayley the color so the New York Tribyune'll tell the world all about it?"
Something in the slant of Pat's eye reminded Terry to dig his dirt from beside the white rock in the corner; seizing the spade, he did so, and dumped into the pan always handy. The ditch that fed the sluice was only a few steps from the shallow edge of the pit. Squatting over it, Terry deftly panned the dirt. No one could have done it better—and the result certainly was amazing. Terry handed up the pan, but he scarcely could believe his eyes. Mr. Horace Greeley would require no 'specs to see that color!
Between two an' thray dollars, Your Honor, assured Pat, as amidst exclamations the remarkable pan was passed about. "Even a boy can get the rale stuff in these diggin's. Will Your Honor keep the dust for a token? An' will ye be after tryin' a pan for yourself? Sure, everything ye find is yours."
You might try a pan from the riffles of the sluice, Mr. Greeley, suggested Mr. Byers.
I will. Mr. Greeley promptly rolled up his sleeves, and settled his square hat more firmly on his head. "Let me have the pan, if you please." He carefully scraped the color from the pan and deposited it in a buckskin bag that he carried. "Where shall I take from?"
Annywhere, annywhere, Your Honor, bade Pat.
Why not about the middle, Mr. Greeley? proposed Journalist Richardson. "That would be fair."
Let him alone, gintlemen, urged Pat. "Let His Honor do it all himself. Come out, Terry, lad. Ye'll be gettin' in His Honor's way."
That was not one bit true, because Mr. Greeley would not be anywhere near Terry. However, Terry trudged out, to please the anxious Pat; and now Mr. Villard hailed him.
Why—hello, Pike's Peak Limited! I thought that was you. Where's your partner, and how are you making it in the mines? He shook heartily with Terry, in spite of the mud on Terry's clothes—not to speak of considerable on Terry's hand.
Harry's up at the cabin. We're doing pretty well, thank you, answered Terry.
Well, I should rather say you were, if you wash out two and three dollar pans! I was hoping to see you. Mr. Richardson has a message for you. Richardson, this is one of the partners in that Pike's Peak Limited outfit you've inquired about.
Oh, yes. And Mr. Richardson, the Boston journalist, also shook hands with Terry. "Glad to meet you. Mr. Greeley and I passed some people on our way out by stage. That is, they spent the night near us, at one of the stage stations. They asked us, if we saw the Pike's Peak Limited boys at the diggin's anywhere, to say they were coming. There were two families traveling together. One was Mr. and Mrs. Richards——"
They're my father and mother! exclaimed Terry.
And the other was Mr. and Mrs. Stanton, and a boy and a little girl.
I know 'em! cried Terry, excited. "The boy's name is George and the girl's name is Virgie. The Stantons are near neighbors of my folks, in the Big Blue Valley. Are they near? When'll they get here?"
Oh, they were some distance out yet, smiled Mr. Richardson. "But they had spanking good teams and were pushing right through. They'll——"
Ha, ha! Watch our old friend Horace! He acts like an expert, laughed Mr. Villard.
For Mr. Greeley, after having deliberately selected the packed dirt from several of the riffles at the middle of the sluice, was proceeding to wash his pan at the ditch.
Why, His Honor might have been in the diggin's all his life! praised Pat. "Sure, isn't he a Californy Forty-niner?"
Mr. Greeley was not so swift in his motions as a skilled prospector, but he evidently knew the correct method. He dipped, and tilted the pan, and twirled out the dirt and water; and peered, and dipped and twirled again.
Each time that he peered he seemed to be more interested, and his smooth, chubby face grew redder.
Have you struck it rich, Mr. Greeley?
Upon my word! And straightening, he returned with the pan held close under his nose. "Marvelous! If this is gold—and I judge that it is—these are very rich diggings indeed."
They all crowded forward to inspect the pan. The bottom of it was absolutely yellow!
Hurrah for Mr. Greeley! congratulated the other journalists, and hands patted him roundly on the back.
Gold! proclaimed Pat. "Faith, an' if 'tain't a twinty dollar pan I'll ate it. Wance I washed out siventeen dollars myself, but never a pan like that from mere a few riffles. Keep it, Your Honor. Would ye like to try ag'in?"
Oh, no, no, declined Editor Greeley, considerably flustered as he painstakingly transferred the flakes and dust to his buckskin sack. "This is proof enough. Now I have worked with my own hands and seen the results with my own eyes—I have the results in my very pocket! Nobody can gainsay the richness of these new Western mines, and the truth shall be announced to the world as far as my paper can carry it." He smiled boyishly on Terry. "I beat you, my son, didn't I? Well, well!"
This is one of the Pike's Peak Limited boys, Mr. Greeley, explained Journalist Richardson. "You remember a party of emigrants on the trail sent word by us to them, in case we ran across them at Cherry Creek or elsewhere."
Yes, yes. That is so, and the great Horace Greeley extended his hand to Terry. "You must be Terry, then—the son of that Mr. and Mrs. Richards in one of the wagons."
Yes, sir, answered Terry, wondering how Mr. Greeley could remember. "They're my father and mother. The other outfit lived on the next ranch to us in the Big Blue Valley."
And they had another boy, and a little girl beside, said Mr. Greeley. "That's good. I'm glad to see young blood entering this vast new country of the United States. When I return to New York I think I shall print as a motto: 'Go West, young man; go West.'"
After shaking hands again with Pat, the Horace Greeley party rode on up the gulch, for further investigations. Pat respectfully watched them; then he clapped on his battered hat and faced Terry with a droll wink.
B' gorry, that was good wages for an hour's work. Oi'm thinkin' Mr. Grayley'll be wishin' to sell his Tribyune an' dig in the dirt along with the rest of us here.
I should say! agreed Terry. "Jiminy, this is awful rich ground! I didn't know there was so much gold in here, did you? We must have opened up a regular layer yesterday."
Don't ye tell anybody, whispered Pat, "but Oi opened up me oyster-can a bit, an' sprinkled a few pinches jist to make the visit by His Honor the more interestin'. Sure," continued Pat, "ye wouldn't want a man like the great Horace Grayley to soil his hands for mere a dollar or two, would ye? An' it's all right. The same gold came out o' here in the first place, an' wance Oi tuk siventeen dollars an' fifty cents from a single pan, myself. He might have done as much without my help, if he'd struck the proper spot, an' I only made matters 'asy for him. Now he can print the news with an exclamation point. Well, let's clane up the sluice, an' give back to the oyster-can what's due it an' more besides."
Word was spread through the Gulch for a mass-meeting this evening to listen to a speech by Horace Greeley; but of far more importance, in Terry's mind, was the news that his father and mother and the Stantons were on the Pike's Peak trail! Yes, sir; coming! They must have cut loose sooner than expected. But when would they arrive at Cherry Creek?
Mr. Richardson had not said; still, he had said that they were well equipped and were "pushing right along." They could not have arrived yet, of course; the Greeley stage had got in only two or three days ago, and the stage coaches traveled mostly at a gallop and fast trot so as to cover fifty miles a day, including stops for dinner and sleep. The best teams could cover only twenty miles a day. Anyway, they were coming, and he was wild to tell Harry—and Shep.
So as soon as he might knock off work on the Casey claim he bustled to the cabin, and unloaded the news.
He and Harry united in a war dance. Shep barked. "That," quoth Harry, when they had quieted down again, "is a joke on us." He rubbed his long nose and surveyed Terry quizzically. "Which of us will wear the clean shirt, to receive them in?"
Dunno, grinned Terry. "But if they don't get here pretty quick there won't be any extra shirt. And one of your boots is plumb gone, already!"
I know it, admitted Harry. "I'll have to make moccasins. But we can't get clothes till we pay our debt."
No, sir! agreed Terry. "We'll have to get that hundred dollars ahead, first." For upon this they were determined.
We sure will, confirmed Harry. "We wrote that we were rich with a gold mine, and told your father the hundred dollars would be waiting here for him, and a lot more besides! Huh!"
They think we're rolling in wealth, asserted Terry. "Now they'll laugh."
No, I don't believe they'll laugh, said Harry. "We did make a long brag, though. But chances are they didn't get that letter before they started. We'll write them, to Denver, and just say we're doing well. Then they'll know where we are."
George'll laugh, insisted Terry. "He'll laugh when he finds you're cooking pies and I'm working by the day for Pat Casey! I told him I'd have a claim ready for him, so he could start in digging."
Ha, ha! cheered Harry. "Well, we've got the claims, haven't we? And he can dig all he wants to. We're doing the best we can. You're earning a dollar and a half a day, and I'm the champion cook of the diggin's—I sold three pies and a batch of biscuits today, all for dust."
How much've we got in our oyster-can, I wonder?
Quite a lot, after you've been paid off, alleged Harry, cheerfully. "But trouble is, flour and apples and soda and salt cost so plaguey much—and we have to eat, ourselves. So that means coffee and meat and—pshaw! But not a stitch of clothes do we buy, mind you, till we're square with Father Richards."
Don't believe Dad'll need the hundred dollars, declared Terry.
Maybe he will and maybe he won't, answered Harry. "But we let on we had a bonanza, and now we've got to make good. That's the joke."
Shucks! bemoaned Terry. "We can't go down to Denver or Auraria in these rigs, to meet real folks. We look like—like—I don't know what. Your pants are split clear across the knee."
No worse split than yours, retorted Harry. "And my best boot is better than your best one!"
We'll have to stay out of sight in the mountains, asserted Terry, "till we get enough dust to buy clothes with."
Well, said Harry, "here's where we belong. We're all right for Gregory Gulch—and we don't know when to meet the folks, anyway. By the time they turn up we may have our can heaping full from my pies and your wages, or we may be regularly sluicing out the gold from the Golden Prize and the True Blue, and go down to Denver in time to put on broadcloth and brand new boots!"
If we only had water, sighed Terry.
That's the one thing that keeps us from being millionaires, sighed Harry. "And it's one thing or another with most people—or else we'd all be millionaires. Counting up beforehand is the easiest part of getting rich."
Just the same, I know this much, blurted Terry. "Some day all of a sudden George Stanton will come straight into this gulch, with his pick and spade, looking for the gold that he'll say we promised him."
Then we'll put him to work baking, or digging with you and Pat, laughed Harry.
The mass meeting that evening to hear Horace Greeley speak was a great affair. Everybody went—that is, everybody who wanted to. Clothes did not matter. At least 2,000 people gathered, and they wore all kinds of garb, from buckskin to rags. They stood about, or sat upon the ground and stumps and logs; and Mr. Greeley, in a long whitish coat, addressed them, after having been given three cheers.
He said that his day's trip through the diggin's had convinced him that this was a gold region as rich as California, and now he was of the opinion that a new State should be formed. He urged the miners to work hard and faithfully, and not drink or gamble. It was work instead of gambling and running about that would make them successful. He hoped that they all would live honest, upright lives, just as though their home folks were with them; and if anybody would not so live, he should be placed upon a horse or mule and told to ride and not come back. He said that one purpose in his visiting the Pike's Peak country was to find out the truth regarding the mines; but that another purpose was to cross the continent and get information that would hasten the building of a railway—the Pacific Railway, to extend from the Missouri River to the Pacific Ocean!
Hooray for Horace Greeley! And again hooray!
Mr. Richardson spoke, and so did Mr. Williams, the Pike's Peak Express Co. superintendent, and others. They all were cheered, also.
It's funny we don't see Sol Judy anywhere, isn't it? remarked Terry, as after another rousing round of cheers for the visitors, and the Gregory Diggin's, and a new State of Jefferson, the meeting broke up. "I thought we might 'spy him in that crowd."
So did I, admitted Harry. "But he'll turn up again. He always does."
The Horace Greeley party spent the next day in the diggin's, and then went back to Denver. It was understood that they had decided to make a favorable report to their papers, saying that there was plenty of gold to be found by those who knew how to find it; but that people who were doing well in business and on their farms in the East ought to stay there instead of starting off on a wild-goose chase.
That's right, supported Harry. "Only about one person in ten in this very gulch is making any money mining. The rest of us are just living and hoping."
He continued his cooking, and Terry continued to work for Pat. That was hard work, too—all day in the muddy soil, digging, and dumping the heavy spadesful into the sluice, and stirring, and running along to follow the dirt down, and once or twice each day cleaning up the sluices. But Harry had no easy job, either. Fire wood was getting scarcer and needs must be carried farther—and the rusty stove burned a terrible amount. And water must be carried up by the bucket. And Jenny must be attended to, so that she should have water and grazing. And the washing done. And the meals got, the same as ever. And there was the worry over obtaining a supply of flour and dried apples—especially the dried apples, for the pies.
The pies contracted for by Pat were the chief source of income in the cooking line, although occasionally Harry did sell a pie or some bread to other customers. But more women were arriving in the gulch, and they, too, did cooking.
The oyster-can grew heavier only very slowly. What with the high prices of flour and apples and other stuff, and what with the amount of provisions they ate themselves, there really was not so much profit in cooking, after all.
But toward the last week of June Harry calculated that the dust in the oyster-can was approaching the $100 sum. And now they both began to wonder again when the folks and the Stantons would appear.
Then the not unexpected occurred.
Terry was deep down in Pat's pit and toiling lustily, and was already mud and dirt from crown to soles, when from above somebody hailed him. George Stanton, of course! Not only George, but Virgie, too. They were peering in, George afoot and Virgie from the back of the Indian pony that last year had been captured from Thunder Horse, the mean Kiowa.
George wore a natty buckskin suit, and his revolver, of make-believe wooden hammer; and with a blanket roll on his back, and a new pick and spade on his shoulder, and a new gold-pan slung at his side, he evidently was all prepared for business. Virgie wore a sunbonnet and a cleanish gingham dress. They both looked so spic and span that Terry realized how different he looked, himself. But with an instant whoop of welcome he clambered out to shake hands.
Hello, George! Hello, Virgie! Cracky, I'm glad to see you! When did you get in? Where are the folks?
Down in Denver, answered George. "Virgie and I came up with some people we met on the trail. Is this your mine? Did you find one for me, too?"
You're awful dirty, accused Virgie, wiping her hand on her dress.
I reckon I am, Virgie, agreed Terry. "So'd you and George be, if you weren't tenderfeet. How'd you know where to find us? Did you get our letters?"
Yes; got the one you wrote from Denver—got it at Manhattan, just as we were starting. We came through in twenty-one days. Your dad and mine have a cracking good team apiece. And we got another you wrote to Denver from these diggin's. Found it waiting for us. Is this your mine? Where's Harry? Did you discover one for me? Where's the gold? We hear you've struck it rich! The folks sent us up to see. Do you want them, too?
Who told you we'd struck it rich? demanded Terry.
A sick boy down at Denver. He heard us asking for our mail, and asked if your father was any kin of yours. He says he knows your mine; it's the Golden Prize, and it's a bonanza; regular humdinger! So I was looking for it, and I saw the top of your hat, and I told Virgie: 'There's Terry Richards' hat, and I bet he's under it!' Is this the mine? Is that other man working for you? Where's Harry? Shall I get down in and dig, too? I'm not afraid of dirt.
Naw, this isn't the Golden Prize, confessed Terry, bluffly. "It's another mine—belongs to Pat Casey. I'm helping him. But I'll quit and take you over to the cabin. 'Tisn't far. Wait till I tell Pat."
Pat likewise was out of the pit, and had visitors: two men talking at him hotly and gesturing with their fists, while Pat responded in kind. They all seemed to be having an angry argument.
Oh, Pat! appealed Terry. "I'm going over to the cabin a minute, if you don't mind. I've got some friends to show about."
Sure, go on, bade Pat. "Stay the mornin', if ye like. There'll be no more dirt turned on this property till afternoon ag'in, annyhow—barrin' Oi don't start a graveyard in your absince."
That was an odd remark, but Pat appeared to be so enraged at something or other newly come up that Terry did not delay to interfere farther.
All right; let's go, he said to George and Virgie.
He led off; George stumped behind, weighted with blanket roll, wooden-hammer revolver, pan, and pick and spade; Virgie followed on her pony. Terry, in his mud and ragged clothes, felt like an old-timer, as he conducted these "tenderfeet" to the cabin home in the busy gulch.
Golly, there are a lot of people in here, aren't there? panted George, impressed by the many curious sights. "Are they all making their pile?"
No, I should say not, yet. But they're all trying.
How much do you think you've got already? A thousand dollars?
Uh-uh. We haven't weighed it; haven't any scales.
I want to see some gold, piped Virgie.
I'll show you some when we get to the cabin, promised Terry.
Is Harry at the cabin? queried George.
Yes; we'll surprise him.
What's he doing? Is the cabin at your mine? Is he mining there while you're mining at that other place? Who's Pat Casey? Why don't you and Harry mine together?
I guess he's cooking. Somebody has to cook, explained Terry. "And clean up."
Well, you need cleaning up, all right, asserted George. "Reckon you'd better not let your mother see you in those clothes! She'd have a fit."
Aw, we old miners all dress like this, retorted Terry. "It's only tenderfeet who fix up."
Nobody'd take you for a millionaire, that's sure, scoffed George. "Say!" he added. "You sold Duke, didn't you? I saw him in a show, there at Denver—or Auraria, I mean, but it's all the same thing. What'd you do that for? They're going to match him with a bear as soon as they can find the bear—have a fight!"
Oh, shucks! deplored Terry. "Did you see Thunder Horse's head, too?"
Was that Thunder Horse? Didn't look like him now! Where'd they get his head? Thought Pine Knot Ike had it. You said so in your letter.
Yes, he did have it on the trail. But Mr. O'Reilly bought it for the show. And Pine Knot Ike's in here. He's with a gang not very far from us.
I don't like Thunder Horse, and I'm hungry, piped Virgie.
We'll have something to eat in a jiffy, comforted Terry. "There's the cabin."
Which one? queried George.
That one with the sign on. See? On that little rise.
What does the sign say—'Pike's Peak Limited'? Or 'The Golden Prize'? urged George. "'Golden Prize Mine,' I bet."
I see Harry! We're going to s'prise Harry, rejoiced Virgie.
That seemed evident, for Harry was sitting against the cabin wall, under the sign, and busily engaged.
He's panning gold, isn't he? exclaimed George, excited.
Naw, said Terry, weakly. "He's panning dough, I reckon."
Oh, look! cried Virgie.
For Harry had sprung up at the approach of another man around the corner of the cabin—was telling him to get out—the man would not go—jumped for Harry—got the pan of dough square on the head—and they closed and swayed, wrestling. Shep appeared, to circle and bark and snap.
Virgie screamed.
That's Pine Knot Ike! gasped Terry, jumping forward.
And George, dropping pick and spade and ducking from his blanket roll, fairly streaked it, shouting and flourishing his wooden-hammer revolver. He easily beat Terry.
Suddenly Pine Knot Ike went staggering from one of Harry's clever trips, and saw George and the big revolver. Away he lunged, legging it and making an odd sight with his head and shoulders plastered by dough, and Shep nipping at his trousers' seat.
You'd better get, threatened George, pursuing, "or I'll shoot you into little bits!"
Harry quickly drew back his arm and threw—the piece of rock struck Ike between the shoulders. Whereupon, as if thinking that he really had been shot, Ike uttered a loud yelp, gave a prodigious leap, and legged faster.
Bang! shouted George.
When Terry and Virgie arrived, George was returning, considerably swelled up with the triumph of his wooden-hammer gun, and Harry was laughing.
There go four dollars' worth of dough and my pocket piece. Howdy, Virgie? Hello, George! Much obliged. Where are the other folks?
They're down at Cherry Creek. We came——
What was the matter? What'd he want? interrupted Terry. "The big lummix!"
I don't know. He was hanging 'round—I 'spied him poking about on that other claim yonder, and when I ordered him off with the shot-gun he said something about 'taking it out of my hide.' So he sneaked in on me when I wasn't looking. I don't think my hide would pan out much, but he might get good color out of Terry's and my clothes.
Aw——! blurted George, who now had read the sign. "'Gregory Gulch Bakery! Harry Revere & Co.'! What do you mean by that? I thought you had a gold mine!"
So we have, chuckled Harry. "At two dollars a pie, and a dollar and a half a day loading Pat Casey's sluice."
George indignantly flung his hat on the ground.
But I didn't come 'way out here to bake pies or work for a dollar and a half a day, he accused, as if they were to blame. "We-all thought you were rich, and I was going to dig on my own hook and get rich, too."
Virgie, who did not understand, but sensed a disappointment, began to wail.
They calmed Virgie, George stalked out and glumly brought in his brand new pick and spade, and during dinner Harry and Terry tried to explain.
You see, we've got our mines ready, all right, concluded Terry, "but we can't work 'em."
Why don't you make those fellows give you water, then? demanded the spunky George. "Let's all go over there tonight with our guns and open a ditch. If my gun would shoot I'd go alone."
Trouble is, their guns do shoot, I reckon, drawled Harry. "And another trouble is, the water all around is petering out anyway. That stream below is scarcely a trickle. Pretty soon we'll be carrying our drinking and cooking water from Clear Creek, and that's a mighty long tote."
Pat says there's talk of digging a big ditch and fetching water into the gulch from a river over yonder, informed Terry. "But it will cost money, and anybody who uses the water will have to buy by the inch."
Why don't we wait for it? proposed George. "You've got some money saved up, and you're making more, aren't you? Your father didn't say anything about wanting his hundred dollars. He grub-staked you, on a chance."
Yes, and his chance is powerful slim, retorted Harry. "He can do more with the hundred dollars than he can with a dry prospect. A hundred dollars is all we've been offered for it, and so his half interest amounts to only $50, and he'd lose out. We'll pay him what we borrowed and we'll do the waiting."
Did they sell the ranches? asked Terry.
Part trade, and the rest is to come out of the crops. Guess they haven't got very much cash yet, answered George.
That settles it, pronounced Harry. "When you go down you can take our dust. I reckon there's near a hundred dollars."
I'm not going down, for a while, declared George. "I'll throw in with you fellows. Guess I can find something to do."
What!
That's right, and George stubbornly wagged his head. "Maybe I won't get rich, but I can stick. I can dig around here, can't I? And tote water and help with the cooking?"
Hurrah! cheered Terry. "He can have the True Blue and dig there; but I shouldn't wonder if Pat would hire him. We need another man."
I can dig better than I can bake, admitted George. "I'll do something to earn my keep. I mean to stay and help out, Virgie can go back in the morning with those people who brought us in. They're just looking about. Where does the True Blue lie? Can I have it? Have you dug much there?"
No. It's a drier claim than this. The water was on our side, so we thought we'd clean up the Golden Prize first.
How much land is the True Blue?
One hundred feet long and fifty feet wide, same as the Golden Prize. We run one hundred feet from the cabin and into that little draw, and then the True Blue begins.
George stood up and gazed. His new property did not seem to impress him very favorably; and indeed it was not especially inviting, being a bare rocky slope, pitted here and there with the shallow prospect holes of the preacher.
Shucks! he criticized. "It's mostly dirt and stones. I haven't got even that trough."
You mean 'sluice,' grandly corrected Terry. "'Trough' is a tenderfoot word. All you can do is pan, anyway, with a bucket of water. But I've got to go back to Pat."
Might as well ask him for a job for me, will you? responded George. "I'll take it unless I strike things rich first, and can make more money panning."
Terry trudged away. George helped Harry with the dishes, then carried a bucketful of water to his claim and proceeded to "mine." This was working under difficulties, and Virgie, who had followed close after, proudly lugging his spade, soon returned.
I don't think that's much fun, she stated.
Well, it isn't, agreed Harry. "And 'most of the folks who expected to get rich easy think the same way."
Presently George gave up, out of humor. He was not only tired, but hot and grimy, too.
There's not a blamed sign of gold in that whole claim, he crossly declared. "You fellows got cheated. You can have it back again. I'll dig for Pat Casey. Will he pay me a dollar and a half a day?"
He ought to pay you the same he pays Terry. That's three dollars a day for you two, and four dollars a day for me, and some days I make five—one day I made seven, and on Sundays I'm sure of six—! Why, there's a gold mine in itself. We'll be flying high, encouraged Harry.
George braced up. But—
Huh! he grunted. "'Tisn't a pound a day, though."
Terry's coming, piped Virgie.
So he was—not only coming, but bringing his tools with him, and also a decidedly disgusted aspect.
Don't you work any more? called George. "Doesn't he want me?"
Naw! growled Terry, throwing down his pick and spade. "He's busted. And he doesn't want any more pies, either. Here are the last two. He can't eat 'em—says he has indigestion."
Well, don't step on them, warned Harry. "We can eat them. But how is he 'busted'?"
It isn't his claim, answered Terry. "That is, maybe he doesn't own it at all. Some men he was arguing with this morning say it's theirs. So nobody'll work there till things are settled up. And Pat's as mad as a hornet. They say all the dust in his oyster-can is theirs, too, because he got it out of that hole."
Whew! mused Harry. "The Extra Limited & Co. seem to be more limited than ever. And that's hard luck for Pat."
What'll we all do, then? queried George, aghast. "Light out and go down to Denver?"
Not by a jugful! And Harry swung the two pies. "We're here to stick. I reckon three able-bodied men and a dog and a nice yellow mule can earn a living somehow."
I'll stay, asserted Terry.
So will I, asserted George.
I'll stay. I'll help Harry cook, proffered Virgie.
Harry picked her up and kissed her.
No, you can't, Virgie. You go to the folks and tell them we're well and hustling and never say die, and pretty soon we'll be millionaires. But you see you can't stay with us, because we're liable to be traveling 'round, looking for the gold, and we may have to sleep in the rain, and sometimes there won't be much to cook.
Virgie wept. She was only a little girl, you know.
But I want a mine, she said. "Don't I get any mine?"
Of course you do, assured Harry. "You can have the mine George was working on. It's named the True Blue. George doesn't want it. And it's a real mine—see those holes?"
Sure. You can have it, for all of me.
Virgie's tears dried instantly.
All right. I'll dig in it. And off she hurried, with George's pan, in a moment to be occupied poking into the dirt with a stick.
Let's hold a council, boys, proposed Harry. "Pat was my best customer, for pies, and I don't think I'll bother any more with this cooking business. I reckon we'll have to make a tour of the diggin's and offer the services of three men and a mule. Jenny'll need to help, if she expects to eat. There's not much free grazing left around these claims."
While they were discussing ways and means, Virgie toiled in from her "mine," carrying the empty pan.
I sha'n't dig any more, she announced. "I'm tired."
What have you got in your hand, Virgie?
A piece of my mine, and Virgie extended her prize. "I'm going to take a piece of my mine down to show papa."
That's a good idea, approved Harry. "Take him a sample, so as to prove to him."
Is it gold? invited Virgie.
I shouldn't wonder, said Harry, kindly. "It looks just like the pocket-piece I threw at Ike. Wait. I'll see."
But although he searched among the stones and bushes at the place where the pocket-piece might have bounded from Ike's back, he did not come across it, and neither did Terry nor George.
It was the same kind of quartz, though, he insisted. "Where did you find your piece, Virgie?"
Over there, answered Virgie, vaguely. "I don't remember. Can't I have it? Isn't it gold? That's a gold mine."
Maybe it is gold, from the True Blue mine. You can tell your father you mined it, bantered Harry.
Goody! And Virgie tightly clutched it. "And I can buy Duke with it. They're going to make him fight a bear and I don't want him to fight a bear."
What's that? Harry's voice rang sharply. "Who said so?"
Sure, affirmed George. "We saw him, in a show. And there's a sign up telling folks to bring in a bear and have a match."
Great Scotland! Why didn't you mention it before? Harry was visibly disturbed.
I did, to Terry.
Yes, he did, but I'd forgotten, supported Terry. "I was intending to speak about it, but these other things put me off the track."
What'd you sell him for? taxed George. "Shouldn't think you'd have sold him. He's awful peaked, shut up there."
Well, we didn't sell him for that, anyway, declared Harry. "Good-bye. You fellows stay here. I'm going."
Where?
Down there—to Denver and Auraria. We'll go and rescue Duke, won't we, Virgie?
You don't need to go, do you? The folks can rescue him. We'll tell Virgie to ask them to, proposed Terry. "They'll do it."
No, sir! rapped Harry. "I got him into that mess and I'll get him out if it takes every cent we have. We can pay Father Richards by selling the mine, if necessary; but Duke sha'n't fight any bear. That wasn't the bargain." And he bolted into the cabin.
Terry gazed at George; George solemnly gazed at Terry. It was a day of sudden changes in plans.
Shucks! Duke oughtn't to be made to fight a bear, though, murmured Terry.
I should say not—I call that downright cruel, agreed George. "But the bear wasn't there yet. Anyway, maybe the man won't sell."
He'll have to, if Harry once gets after him. And the folks will help now, reminded Terry, hopefully.
I'll help, chirped Virgie. "I'll help with my mine."
Harry bustled out. He had his blanket and a small package in some sacking.
Of course there's no use in the rest of you going, he said. "I've taken most of our 'pile,' Terry, but I've left you a pinch of dust and the two pies, and there's flour and stuff yet. I'll leave you Jenny, too. You and George and Jenny can be getting me a job while you're getting for yourselves. I'll be back as soon as I save Duke from being bear meat. If you can't find any paying jobs here, sell the blamed old claims, and we'll prospect in better diggin's. Climb on your pony, Virgie. Tell 'em good-bye."
You mustn't sell my mine, objected Virgie, from the saddle of the Indian pony. "I don't want it sold."
Well, they can sell the Golden Prize, if they have to, laughed Harry. "So long, fellows. You'll see Duke and me later."
Away he strode at rapid limp—dear old Harry!—with Virgie on her ambling pony keeping pace beside him, into the gulch and on.
Guess we'll have to rustle, spoke Terry, to George, as they watched him and Virgie out of sight.
Gregory Gulch was now very different in appearance from that same gulch into which the Extra Limited had entered about a month ago. It resembled a noisy, booming new town. Almost every foot of lower ground was occupied. A great deal of the timber had been cut from the ridges and slopes, to be used in cabins and sluices and for fuel; and the axes were merrily ringing, in tune with the staccato of hammers and the thud of picks.
More families had arrived, so that women were frequently seen, and some of the cabins looked exceedingly "homey." There were many more grocery stores and general supply stores, in tents or log buildings. Where Editor William Byers' tent had stood, half-way up the gulch, town lots for the new Central City had been staked out and were selling as high as $500 apiece!
Flour was $20 a sack of 100 pounds, eggs were $2.50 a dozen, and milk fifty cents a quart. But money was very cheap, and prices seemed to cut little figure, for were not men digging, digging, digging, and emptying their dirt into rockers, or carrying it in gunny sacks and in sleds over pine-trunk tracks, to their sluices, and washing out the dust (some of them) to the amount of $200 a day?
At night the hundreds of camp fires lighted the gulch redly from side to side; and already there had been a great forest fire, on the new trail in from the Platte, which had burned to death three men and a dog.
The trail itself was lively, said George, with gold-seekers still trudging into the mountains, singing, "I'm bound to the land of gold," and under Table Mountain had been started, on Clear Creek, a town named "Golden City." It contained about thirty cabins and nearly a thousand people, living in the cabins or camping!
And Denver and Auraria were booming, also.
Amidst such apparent prosperity it did seem as though persons anxious to work could find work that would pay. But the trouble was that Gregory Gulch had become over-populated. The newcomers asserted that the old-timers, like the Gregory crowd, had located too much ground, and that the claims ought to be cut down from one hundred feet to twenty-five feet, so as to give more people a chance. This movement did not prove out, because when a miners' meeting was held, to make changes in the regulations, the old-timers put in their own men as officers and won.
Consequently, what with the high prices of food and lumber, and the many claims that yielded scarcely anything, and the constant rush to get other claims wherever possible, a lot of people were glad to turn their hands to any kind of work.
Terry and George tramped clear up the gulch, inquiring at sluice and rocker and prospect hole, and even at tents and cabins.
Need any help? Or: "Do you know of a job we can get?" Or: "Could you use a couple of husky boys around here?"
Some parties were so busy that they only shook their heads, without pausing. Others directed them on, or to right or left. But after having volunteered in vain as miners, carpenters, and even as wood-choppers, they reached the head of the gulch, and turned back.
Well, guess we'll go down to the other end, sighed Terry.
This sure is a tough proposition, said George, using professional language. "Anyway, we've got enough to live on for a day or two, haven't we? Wonder when Harry'll be back."
He won't come back till he has Duke; you can depend on that. Maybe he hasn't money enough.
He can borrow from the folks.
He won't, though. He'd rather work and earn some more.
You can sell your mine, can't you, if you have to? asked George. "He said sell it. And we can sell the True Blue. I'd as lief."
We gave it to Virgie, reminded Terry.
Aw, she wouldn't care. It's no good, is it? It doesn't own any water.
Well, 'tisn't as good as the Golden Prize, admitted Terry. "Maybe we'll sell the Golden Prize and find something better. But I'd like to wait till Harry comes. I'd hate to sell it to that Pine Knot Ike gang."
They offered you $100, though, didn't they?
Y-yes, admitted Terry. "It's better than nothing, of course."
They two (for Shep had been left to guard the cabin) were retracing their steps by a slightly different route down the opposite side of the gulch, so as not to miss any chances, and now came upon the wheel-barrow man.
Why, hello, young Pike's Peak Limited, he greeted. "How's the gold-seeking business?"
We're not gold-seeking, we're job-seeking, explained Terry. "Do you know of a job for a couple like us?"
The wheel-barrow man appeared to have packed up. His blanket roll and a fry-pan and tin cup were laid ready in front of his closed cabin.
What's the matter? Didn't your prospects pan out? he queried.
We haven't any water, so we quit. Then I worked for Pat Casey, and he quit, and we can't even sell pies, confessed Terry.
Where's your other partner?
He went down to Denver and Auraria, to buy our buffalo back. They're trying to match Duke against a bear.
Pshaw! That so? I'm going down to Denver myself, to look about in time before snow flies. I understand it begins to snow up here in September, and everybody'll be driven out.
What'll you do with your mine? You've got one, haven't you? asked George.
Sure pop, young man. And it's recorded, too, on the district books; and if anybody jumps it while I'm gone there'll be a heap of trouble for him. It's in black and white, described according to miners' law. Say—if you boys really want to work, you go on to Gregory Point, near the mouth of the gulch, and maybe you can get a day's work, or several days' work, on the new church they're putting up there for a preacher.
Come on, George, bade Terry. And—"Much obliged," he called back. "Where's your wheel-barrow?"
Played out at last. Don't need it, anyway. Can carry all I've got on my back.
What's 'recorded'? queried George, as they hurried off. "Are our claims recorded?"
Don't think so, puffed Terry. "Nobody told us to record 'em. They're ours, and we've been sitting on them right alone. I'll ask Harry when he comes back."
Or we can ask Pat Casey, proposed George.
They did not find Pat. His pit was idle and he was away—hunting witnesses to the sale by which he had bought the prospect. But they found the church, or rather the site of the church, on Gregory Point, as that was called, near the mouth of the gulch. Already a platform like a floor had been constructed; several men were busy hauling logs and leveling the ground with spades for another building; and the Yale preacher from the True Blue claim had his sleeves rolled up and was working with the rest. It was to be his church!
He warmly welcomed Terry, and shook hands with George also.
Yes, indeed; plenty of work here, he jubilated—and Terry's heart beat expectantly. "We need strong arms. Bring along ax and spade, and pitch in. But," he added, "everything is donated, of course. The labor, material, ground—all is a gift to help the good cause. The people in the gulch are mighty generous, and their payment will come in this opportunity regularly to worship God instead of always worshipping gold. They can't live in a civilized fashion without a church. So the quicker we have such a place, the better. What do you say? Want to help?"
Terry looked at George; George looked at Terry.
I'd rather do that than do nothing, blurted George. "Only——"
So would I, answered Terry. "But you see," he said, to the preacher, "those claims have played out——"
That's too bad, sympathized the preacher. "Both of them?"
Yes, sir. We can't mine 'em till we have water. The water's gone. And our jobs busted, and I reckon we'll have to earn our keep. But we'd as lief help here till we strike another job.
All right. Bully for you! To work once in a while for something besides money never hurts anybody, assured the preacher. "I have to do a lot of that myself. Bring down your tools whenever you feel like it. I expect some of the men will be working here all night because they can't spare the time during the day. We're going to finish the church and my cabin before Sunday. But maybe you'd rather wait till morning. It's nearly supper time now. Come after supper, though, to the prayer-meeting. We hold the first prayer-meeting, around this platform. And I'll want you to join the Sunday-school."
They left the enthusiastic preacher and his volunteers building the first church in the diggin's.
Might as well go home, I guess, remarked Terry.
Twilight was empurpling the hills when they arrived. This had been a lively day, but not a very successful one.
Anyway, we've got enough to eat, quoth George. "And if we work on the church that may lead to something else. We'll keep busy."
Sure, agreed Terry. "Keep a-going, as Harry said, all the way out. Keep a-going."
By the time that they had finished supper and washed the dishes the gulch was again redly outlined by the hundred camp fires. The sounds of axes and picks and saws had ceased, and there arose the hum of conversation, broken by shouts and laughs and occasional bits of music.
As they stumped along their way to the prayer-meeting (which was quite an event) they passed a tent where somebody was playing the violin—and farther on, in a cabin, a group of men were singing "Home, Sweet Home," to the tune of an accordian.
The prayer-meeting was being held, sure enough. There on the point was the platform, lighted by torches and surrounded by a throng of people sitting on the ground and stumps and boxes and logs, listening to the preacher. Or—no!
That's the Lord's Prayer! They're all saying the Lord's Prayer! uttered George, awed.
So they were—or at least from this distance the cadence sounded like the Lord's Prayer, repeated in unison by those whiskered men of flannel shirts and high boots and revolvers and by the tanned women in shabby calico dresses. A great sight that was—and a very good sound, for these parts or any parts.
There's another meeting! whispered Terry, for he did not feel like speaking aloud when the Lord's Prayer was being recited. "Haven't got two preachers, have we?"
For just below the prayer-meeting a man was standing in an open wagon and addressing another crowd. He was talking fast, the listeners jostled and craned, and the flare of the pitch-pine torch planted on the wagon lighted their hairy, up-turned faces.
We'll have to go and see, uttered George; who, as a tenderfoot, was eager to see everything.
Presently the words of the man in the wagon-box could be heard above the refrain of the Lord's Prayer around the platform. He was somebody whom Terry never had noticed before in the gulch—a thin, slab-sided man with carroty hair and beard and dressed in prospector's clothes; wore a revolver; no preacher, he. Certainly not, for——
Yes, gentlemen, he was saying, "not more'n fifty miles from here there's a place where every one o' you can wash your pound o' gold dust to a man per day. Me and my partners are the first white men in there; we've made our locations and our laws and have started a new camp that'll be a world-beater. Tarryall, we've named it; in the big South Park: the best and richest country on the face o' the earth. As soon as I get provisions here I'm goin' back in, and I'll take any o' you who want to go with me, on the understandin' you'll respect our rights as first locators. There's plenty room, gentlemen—and a pound o' gold a day per man waitin' to be dug. It's yours, gentlemen, if you want it. We'll welcome you to Tarryall. Only fifty miles to fortune, remember. I'll show you the way, but I start early in the mornin'."
The crowd jostled excitedly. On the outskirts George clutched Terry hard by the sleeve.
Let's go! he exclaimed. "Did you hear? A pound a day! That beats these diggin's. Cracky! I knew there was some place where a fellow could dig his pound a day. We can go and make our strike, and then 'twon't matter whether we sell these claims in here or not."
All right; let's, agreed Terry, fired with the same idea. "We'll locate for ourselves and Harry, too; or if they won't allow boys to locate in their own names we'll locate in Harry's name and my dad's and your dad's! Harry'd never go to any of those other big strikes—the Bobtail, or the one in Russell Gulch, or a lot more. We've stuck here, when we might have been getting rich somewhere else."
Come on back to the cabin and pack up, urged George.
They turned, when a voice at their elbow stayed them.
Got the fever again, have you?
He was the "Root Hog or Die" professor.
Guess so, grinned Terry. "You've been away, haven't you? Did Green Russell find you a mine? Do you know that man in the wagon? Has he made a big strike?"
Never saw him before and don't know anything about him, answered the professor. "Yes, I've got a few prospects, but I'm holding them for more water. Just now I'm recorder for this district. They elected me only the other day. How are you doing? Where's Harry?"
We're waiting for water, too. He's down at Denver, but he's coming back. Will you record our claims? Do we have to record them?
No, you don't have to. It might be safer, though. But I can't record them tonight. The books are locked up. What are they?
The Golden Prize and the True Blue. They're over there.
I know. You look me up at the office first thing in the morning and we'll record them.
We won't have time. We're going to follow that man in the wagon to the new strike, explained Terry. "Nobody'd said anything about recording until this evening. But we'll be back."
Well, I'll make a memorandum, then, proposed the professor, "so you'll be safer. Nobody's liable to jump your claims while you're gone, if they can't be worked. The gulch is full of such claims. But you look me up as soon as you can."
All right. Much obliged, replied Terry. "Maybe we won't want those claims after we've been to the new strike."
We'd better be going. We've got to find Jenny and pack our stuff, urged George, impatient.
Good luck to you, called the professor, as they hastened away.
I'd like to surprise Harry with a regular gold mine, by the time he sees us again, uttered Terry.
Sure. We'll leave a note in the cabin saying we've gone to get rich, enthused George.
There was very little time to be lost. When in the morning they had eaten breakfast and had packed Jenny (who did not seem to object to a change from doing nothing all day) with a buffalo robe and a blanket and the picks and spades and cooking stuff and some provisions, and had placed a note for Harry—"Gone to get rich. Will see you later"—and sallied down the gulch, Terry with his shot-gun on his shoulder and George with his wooden-hammer revolver at his belt, and each with a gold-pan slung on his back, the procession for the new diggin's already had started.
It looked quite like business, too—a long file composed of men riding horses or mules, and of men driving pack animals, and of other men afoot and carrying their packs, pressing south, out of the gulch, evidently following the lead of the Tarryall man.
Once we locate our pound of gold a day, these other diggin's can go hang, can't they? puffed George, as they hurried.
I should say! concurred Terry. "All we'll do will be to come back and get Harry and sell to that Pine Knot Ike crowd, and then we'll light out again. Glad we didn't say where we're bound for. When we sell we can pretend to Ike that we're plumb disgusted."
Sure. Let's push up in front.
They were fast-footed and Jenny was long-legged, and they passed one after another of their rivals, until they were well toward the van. The wagon-man guide could be seen in the advance, guiding up a steep divide between the North Clear Creek and the South Clear Creek. The route appeared to be by an old Indian trail; and the divide itself grew into a mountain. Higher and higher led the trail—a tough climb that made the procession straggle.
It was a great relief when the trail conducted down again, on the other side, to South Clear Creek, and crossed, and turned up, through a beautiful country, to a couple of lonely lakes. But presently it began to climb over another mountain!
Terry limped, George limped, everyone afoot limped, no stop had been made for lunch. Everybody was afraid that somebody else would get to the pound-a-day first.
Wonder how far we've come now? panted George.
You're a tenderfoot. You're petered out already! accused Terry. "We aren't half there."
I don't limp any worse than you do, retorted George.
Keep a-going.
Keep a-going.
On top of this mountain they all in the advance ran into a snowstorm, while the people lower down, behind, evidently were warm and comfortable. Then night fell—a real January night—and camp had to be made.
However, George was game. He proved to be a good campaigner, for a tenderfoot; and as an old-timer Terry of course needs must pretend that this kind of camping was nothing at all. So they pitched in together and cooked supper like the rest of the crowd, and went early to bed on top of the blanket and underneath the buffalo robe.
Jenny won't thank us any for bringing her from summer right into winter, I reckon, murmured George, as he and Terry spooned against each other, to keep warm.
No, replied Terry. "This 'pound of gold a day' song doesn't mean anything to her yet. But it'll be warm down in Tarryall, they say—just like back at the Gregory diggin's."
We ought to get there tomorrow.
Depends on how many more of these mountains there are, reasoned Terry. "Without that Tarryall man to guide us we'd all be lost, sure."
On and on and on, into the south and southwest, continued the march: down and up, across more creeks, across more mountains, into canyons and out again; and when night arrived, no South Park and Tarryall diggin's were yet in sight. Nothing was in sight but thick timber and wild rocky ridges extending to snow-line. Near or distant, before, behind, on either side, the landscape was the same.
A few miles, boys, and we'll be there, promised the Tarryall man. "'Bout tomorrow noon, say. Then for your pound a day."
Seems as though that pound of gold a day was always ten or forty miles ahead of a fellow, complained Terry. "First it was at Cherry Creek, then it was at Gregory Gulch, and now it's somewhere yonder. He said fifty miles, and I bet we've hoofed a hundred and still we haven't struck it yet. Guess Harry and I'll have to sell the Golden Prize so as to get us some boots. Look at mine!"
We'll make moccasins or trade for some with the Injuns, consoled George. "When you're getting your pound a day you won't care."
The straggling procession was well worn out by two days of long, hard marching afoot and ahorse, and most of the animals were foot-sore. But tonight's camp was more cheerful, because the new diggin's lay close before, over the next divide. Yes, the Tarryall man had promised truly, for about eleven o'clock in the morning the head of the procession shouted and cheered and waved.
South Park, boys—and Tarryall's in sight!
Hooray! cheered everybody, as the news spread back from mouth to mouth and ear to ear.
Gwan, Jenny! bade George, clapping her on the gaunt flank; and driving her, he and Terry limped faster.
Because they were boys they had been well treated, on the way over, but now when new diggin's were so close at hand they might expect no favors. Every party must rustle for itself.
Jenny! Gwan! Do you want to be left? Gwan! Hep with you!
Hep with you! echoed Terry.
Jenny did her best; before and behind, the other outfits were doing their very best—crashing recklessly through the brush and timber and sliding and tumbling over the rocks. The head of the procession had disappeared over another little rise—perhaps was already in and at work locating the best pound-a-day claims!
Jenny! Jenny! Yip! Gwan! urged George and Terry. And with their rivals treading on their heels they, too, mounted the little rise, gained the top, and now in the clear could gaze anxiously beyond.
I see it! I see the camp! exclaimed Terry.
So do I. But, whew! this is a big place, isn't it? puffed George.
South Park was indeed large, and also beautiful; being an immense flat, miles wide and miles long, grassy and green and dotted with timber patches and bare round hills—yes, and with buffalo and deer, too!—and well watered by winding streams and the snows of high encircling mountains. The sight might well make one gasp, but another sight should be attended to first: that of the leading gold-seekers spurring their horses and mules diagonally across in a race for a glimmer of tents set amidst willows and pines against the west edge.
And pellmell, hobbling and shouting and straining, all the ragged company strung out after.
If we won't be first, we won't be last, just the same, panted Terry.
The Tarryall diggin's resolved into three or four tents and several bough huts along a creek where it formed a broad gulch as it issued from the mountains. The gulch was being worked with rockers and pans, and claim stakes seemed to be planted clear through, from side to side. In fact, when, breathless, their eyes roving eagerly, Terry and George arrived, business-bent, it looked as though the whole ground had already been occupied by the discoverers!
Tarryall! This isn't Tarryall—it ought to be named Grab-all! was denouncing one of the leaders who had won the race from the last ridge. "What do you think, boys?" he addressed, as the other Gregory Gulch in-comers paused and jostled uncertainly. "There are twelve of these Tarryall fellows, and they've each of 'em staked off two thousand feet! That means twenty-four thousand feet of claims—nearly five miles! Is that fair? No! By miners' law a claim's one hundred feet."
You're right. One hundred feet.
Tear up those stakes.
No thousand or two thousand foot business goes with us!
They've invited us in here. They've got to give us a show.
Grab-all! Grab-all! That's the name for this camp: Grab-all!
The murmur of responses was instant. The Gregory Gulch men surged angrily. The Tarryall men—twelve, now that the guide from Gregory Gulch had joined them—stood in a compact little group. They were a sturdy, rough-and-ready squad, well armed and able to take care of themselves. Their spokesman, a burly, shaggy-bearded individual, stepped out a pace, and tapped the butt of his revolver significantly.
That's tall talk, gentlemen, he said, "but it's wasted on us. This is our camp. We've discovered this ground. We came in here first, where no white men ever prospected before and where the Injuns are liable to raise our hair any moment; we've drawn our own regulations, and I reckon we're going to hold what we've got. No white men, or Injuns either, can tell us what we're to do. If you want peace you can have it; if you want a fight, you can have it; for here we are, and anybody that tries to jump a claim that we've got marked out will be making his last jump—you can bank on that. There's plenty ground left; don't you touch ours."
For a minute things looked ugly, as the Gregory Gulch crowd growled indignantly, and the Tarryall squad waited, watchful and unafraid. Then the other man spoke.
Let's have dinner, boys. After that we'll prospect 'round and hold a little meeting, and see whether this camp is to be Tarryall or Grab-all. Tarryall is what we were invited to join, but if these fellows think we're in here to buy them out because we can't find anything else to do, they're mighty mistaken. It's a smooth scheme, but it won't work.
We can run 'em out, all right, if they don't play fair, boasted George, as he and Terry imitated the rest of the company and prepared dinner.
I don't know. There'd be a lot of men killed, reasoned Terry. "They were in here first, and we promised to respect their rights as locators."
We weren't told they'd staked out all the ground, though. They're allowed only a hundred feet at a time.
That's the Gregory Gulch rule, but this isn't Gregory Gulch; it's a different district, argued Terry, who felt that he'd rather prospect than fight. "Maybe we all can find thousand-feet claims."
Well, we can't find 'em in Tarryall, stormed George. "And Tarryall's the place we were brought to. I guess they expect us to buy. It's a put-up job."
The meeting was held immediately after dinner. Hot speeches were made, and several resolutions were passed: one changing the name from Tarryall to "Grab-all," and another declaring that all claims should be one hundred feet. However, nobody seemed quite up to enforcing this new rule on the claims already staked. Amidst threats and bluster and glowering looks the Tarryall squad warily resumed their daily work, and gradually the Gregory Gulch crowd spread out, searching here and there for color, but taking care not to trespass.
No fight, decided George, as if disappointed. "It's going to be just a grab-all. Get your tools if you want your pound a day."
That's what we came for, reminded Terry, as they shouldered pick and spade apiece. "We won't wait for any fight. Come on; leave the stuff here."
Somebody'll steal your shot-gun.
Don't think so. I can't carry that, too! But I can put it in one of those Tarryall tents.
I'll wear my revolver. I don't leave that, pronounced George, wagging his head.
Sure. You ought to travel well heeled, in these parts, sonny. One of the Tarryall men had strolled over. "If you don't, that Dutchman will take your scalp."
What Dutchman? demanded Terry.
He's holed up in a gulch about a mile yonder. He's like the rest of us original discoverers—what he has he's bound to keep. We all give him a clear field, and I'd advise you to do the same. It's an unhealthy neighborhood hereabouts for claim jumpers. You're two plucky lads. Any more in your party?
No, sir. We're our own outfit, informed Terry. "But we've got another partner, and some prospects, back in the Gregory diggin's."
Do you know where we can dig a pound a day here? That man who brought us in said you were digging a pound a day, challenged George.
So we are—or will be as soon as we get our lumber in place for sluices. But you newcomers won't locate any pound a day ground in this gulch. We've seen to that and we don't propose to be bullied out of our rights as discoverers. We risked our lives to come in here; but of course we'd be glad of company. We own the ground and we own the water. You fellows find your ground and your water, and all together we'll stand off the Injuns. I thought I'd warn you about the Dutchman, though—you two boys, at any rate. I don't want to see you harmed. You were speaking about leaving your scatter-gun, he concluded, more gruffly, to Terry. "That's all right. I'll keep an eye on it for you. If you don't bother the Dutchman he won't bother you."
He'd better not, asserted George. "I'm going to wear my gun. Who is he and what does he want around here?"
Crazy, I told you. Thinks he has a strike, and maybe he has. But it's well to let a crazy man alone, and as long as he stays away from us we stay away from him. The park's big enough for that. Dutchman Diggin's, we've named his gulch. One of the boys happened in there, by accident, and was run out at the point of a shot-gun. All we see of the Dutchman is when he's hunting, and even then he's not far away from home, you bet. Now, that gulch is just beyond the second bunch of timber, south. See? And I'm warning you, friendly, because you're young.
We'll watch out. Much obliged, promised Terry.
Yes, but he'd better watch out, too, blustered George. "We're no tenderfeet. This gun of mine is a humdinger. He won't know it's got a wooden hammer, and it might shoot."
Pshaw, now! laughed the Tarryall man. "You certainly walk kind of tender-footed. But go ahead and find your pound a day."
Guess we'll try south, just the same, said Terry, to George, as they struck off. "We can dodge the Dutchman, and there aren't many of the crowd down that way."
Where'll we begin? queried George, keeping pace.
Whenever we come to a low place where there's water we'll pan for color. That's the only way, instructed Terry. "The gulches are the best places."
Well, we'll have to locate our own diggin's pretty quick and hustle back for Harry, or we'll be all out of grub, declared George.
This search for color was fascinating work, especially when they had the field practically to themselves. There were so many likely places, one after another. Terry planned to pattern after John Gregory, and follow the color right to the source—that is, follow it when once they had found it. But to find it was the chief difficulty.
They panned faithfully clear up the first gulch, to its head—passing a few other "panners." Then they took the trail of a side draw and crossed over to another gulch and panned there. Once they thought that they had struck something, but it proved to be only a trace, and they lost even that. The country was getting wild and lonely.
Don't suppose there are any Injuns watching, do you? suddenly suggested George, as they were crossing a little pass that appeared to lead to still another draw or gulch.
No. Pine and rock basked peacefully and innocent in the afternoon sunshine. "Nobody said anything about 'em. Shep would smell 'em. He hates Injuns. We'll try this next gulch and come out at the lower end, and then make tracks for camp. The sun's going to set."
They crossed over the ridge and descended.
She looks like a good one, this time, doesn't she! appraised George, while they strode and slid and leaped down the short slope, with Shep scouting on either hand.
We're too high up for water, though, criticized Terry. "Can't pan without water."
The gulch was a small one, and dry. They followed along the bottom, where a stream course had worn the pebbles round and scored the soil into banks.
I hear water, uttered Terry. "There's a stream ahead, all right."
The gulch was joined by another gulch entering at an angle—and by a stream, as well.
Here's your good place to pan, exulted Terry. "See the gravel and the bars? Sort of an eddy. Regular pound-a-day place!"
Yes; and somebody else has been digging, too! growled George, disgusted. "Can't we ever discover anything?"
They aren't digging now. Those are only gopherings. We'll get deeper. That's where the big strikes lie—down deep on bed-rock, encouraged Terry.
Dig deep, boy, bade George.
Dig deep, for a pound a day.
And they set to work. George's spade clinked on rock, and at blade length he carefully dumped dirt and gravel into his pan.
Golly, I believe I see gold! he breathed. Terry paused to await results. George panned feverishly—grew more and more excited. "Hurrah! Look-ee here! We've struck it!" His pan, not yet fully cleared, was sparkling and yellow all over the bottom! "We've struck it!"
We've struck it! cheered Terry, forgetful of his own pan awaiting.
They danced. Shep barked and gamboled. And a heavy voice broke in with—
Ja! You struck it. Maybe not! Maybe you get struck mit a club! Hold your hands up an' keep quiet until I see what kind of robbers you are dot come into my gulch.
George dropped his jaw and almost dropped the pan. He and Terry stopped short in their dance, Shep growled, they all stared; stared into the muzzles of a double-barrel shot-gun projecting over the top of a big boulder not fifteen steps at one side, and also into the eyes of a man squatting concealed and squinting over the sight. He was bare-headed and tow-headed.
He slowly arose, with shot-gun leveled, and proved to be a pudgy fat man in dirty checkered shirt and faded blue overalls with bib and straps; regular barnyard overalls.
Gee, the crazy Dutchman! gasped George.
Dot is one lie, corrected the man, steadily. "Joost like American boys, who haf no respect. You come into my gulch to steal mein gold und you call me 'crazy' und a 'Dootchmann,' und for dot I haf a mind to blow off your heads off. Ja!" In his anger he spoke with a stronger German accent than ever. "Vat you want, anyhow? Where you from?"
Oh—I know you! exclaimed Terry, gladly. "Sure I do. And you know me. You're the Lightning Express. Remember, you sold us your sacks. I thought you'd gone home. What are you doing in here?"
Now the German gaped and stared. He slowly lowered his gun, and grinned widely.
Ja, ja. Sure! You are one of dose Pike's Peak Limited boys. Ja, ja! You wass driving a mule an' a boof'lo. Ja, ja! Well, well! An' where is dot partner—dot nice young man? And who is dis odder boy? An' what you doing in my gulch—say!
We didn't know it was your gulch. This boy is George Stanton. He's my partner, too. My other partner's down at Denver. We've been over in the Gregory diggin's.
An' are you prospecting alone? Dere is more of you? demanded the German, suspiciously.
No, we're alone, assured Terry.
Well, well. Is dot so? Den you needn't be afraid. I would not harm goot boys. Nein, nein. Now apparently in fine humor, he waddled forward to shake hands.
We're not afraid, replied Terry.
I should say not, alleged George. "Your gun wasn't cocked, and we could have ducked. You'd have had to fight the two of us at once, besides the dog. That's a powerful dog. He's licked an Injun."
Is dot so? repeated the German, eying Shep. "I stick my one foot in his mouth an' kick him mit de odder. But no, no. Fighting is not goot. I only fight to protect my gulch. Come on down; come on down to where I lif, an' we haf supper."
This is your dust, isn't it? queried George, proffering the pan. "It's out of that dirt. Do you own all the gulch?"
Ja; my gulch. But nefer mind. You keep what you find. I haf plenty, plenty. Come on down now an' I show you somet'ings. You odder boy wash your pan. Den we all go.
Terry delayed not in washing his panful while he had the permission. It yielded fully as much yellow as had George's! Whew! They had struck rich pay-dirt, at last, and—shucks! It belonged to somebody else. However——
Keep it, keep it, bade the German, with grand gesture. "It is not worth my bodder. I haf plenty. I gif you so much, but I do not want you to steal it."
So they carefully scraped the treasure into George's new buckskin sack already open. "We'll divvy," proposed George, "but let me carry it, will you?"—and accompanied the German down the main gulch.
Ja, he explained, to Terry, "I did start myself back an' I sell you an' dot odder partner my sacks an' my tools an' my sauerkraut. An' den, when dose stages begin to pass me, an' peoples begin to come, I t'ink maybe I was one fool again, so I turn 'round."
How did you get in here, though? asked Terry. "Are you the first? Did anybody else come with you?"
Ja, I am the first. No, nobody else come—joost me an' my family an' my wagon an' my oxen. People said 'the mountains, the mountains, the gold is not at Cherry Creek, it is in the mountains'; so we go into de mountains, an' we climb up an' we climb down, an' when we get to where dere is plenty gold, we stop. Dose fellers in dot odder gulch dey come later, but I pay no attention to dem, except when one is in my gulch an' den I drive him out.
How the Lightning Express ever had managed to achieve all that "climbing up" and "climbing down" until it finally arrived here in this remote spot, Terry could not figure out—and the German seemed not to know, himself. He certainly had earned his luck. He had spoken truly, too, for now the gulch widened, and there, before, was his headquarters—a homelike camp, with the two oxen grazing, and the wagon whose torn top still displayed the legend "Litening Express," and a bough-roofed dug-out, and a clothes-line with washing waving from it, and his family hovering around the cook stove set under a tree.
I find my cook stove an' pick him up, he announced. "Ja, we haf lots to eat, but no sauerkraut. Only deers an' boof'lo an' chickens an' fishes."
The menu sounded very alluring, the Mrs. German and all the six girls, even the youngest, smiled welcome, and the two guests were disposed to stay for the promised supper. But first their host, who seemed extraordinarily good-natured and hospitable, mysteriously beckoned them aside; led them to the wagon.
Now I show you somet'ings, he said. "Let's get in mit us." He laboriously clambered in under the hood. They followed.
Evidently the wagon was being used as a sleeping place, for the feather tick and blankets were spread, and two red-flannel night-caps hung against the frame-work. The German turned back the blankets and tick part way and exposed several fat gunny sacks wedged in amidst other stuff, all of which formed a floor.
Dere! he grunted. "Isn't it? Ja! I told you once I fill my sacks. Now I do so."
What's in 'em? blurted George.
Gold. My gold.
George's eyes bulged; Terry heard him pant, and he caught his breath himself.
In every sack?
Ja. One of the sacks had a rent in the upper side. The German inserted his fingers and thumb and extracting some of the contents, displayed the sample in his pudgy, calloused palm. The sample was black sand, all yellowed and asparkle with glittering grains.
I wash him cleaner when I get time, announced the German. "First I fill all my sacks up tight. Den maybe it winter an' I must go away. My wife an' I an' two leetle girls sleep in here on top; dose odder girls sleep under; nobody get my gold. I fill my sacks in my wagon, an' some day I hitch up my oxen an' drive off alretty." He smoothed down the bed again, over the treasure. "I am a smart man. I save some sacks, dot time when I sell."
But you've got millions! exclaimed Terry. "I should think you'd go out instead of staying. You can't use that gold here."
It is notting, asserted the German. "My gulch is so much gold I cannot dig him fast enough. If I go away somebody come in an' steal." He blinked at Terry with his fat eyes. "Maybe I sell, to goot boys who would stay an' watch while I go an' come back. Den we could all work togedder."
Sell all the gulch?
No, no. Maybe I sell one piece. I sell dot piece where you wash out dose pans. I haf plenty more an' I do not like to walk so far. I sell him cheap—it is notting to me, but I will not be stolen from. I sell him to goot boys for $100.
One hundred dollars! gasped Terry and George. They could scarcely believe their ears.
Ja. So cheap. I will not gif him away. It is better for boys to pay a leetle somet'ings, an' when dey haf bought, den dey haf rights. One hoondred dollar—you bring in dot odder partner an' dig all you want to an' you watch my gulch, an' when I come back we all dig togedder an' get rich.
But how much land will be ours to dig in?
I do not care, and the German airily waved his hand. "Dere will be t'ree of you? I sell you the right to six hoondred feet. Dot is two hoondred feet apiece. Ja. An' you watch an' don't you let anybody steal."
Terry looked at George. George was fairly purple with excitement.
Guess we'd better take it.
Guess we had, agreed George, gruffly.
That's a bargain, then.
We haven't got a hundred dollars here, though, stammered Terry, to the German. "We'll go back to Gregory Gulch right away and get it, and get our partner, and we'll hustle in here."
Dot's all right, agreed the German. "Dot's all right. You are goot boys. I wait. I haf one sack not yet full alretty."
We won't stay for supper, proclaimed Terry. "We'll hustle. It's nearly dark, anyway. Come on, George!"
He piled out. George piled out. The German rather tumbled out. They grabbed their tools. "Goot-bye, goot-bye," answered the German, and in a moment they were hurrying down the gulch.
We'll sell the Gregory claims, panted Terry. "Sell to Ike. That's where we'll get the hundred dollars."
Sure, panted George. "Talk about your pound a day! We'll make more than that in here."
I should say! Reckon we washed out ten dollars in just those two pans.
And there'll be millions!
That German has a million now!
Wait till we tell Harry about the sacks.
Not a word of this to those Tarryall and Grab-all folks. Keep mum!
You bet. Don't want any stampede. We'll pretend we're going out disgusted.
Wonder if the German expects us to stay in all winter?
We don't care. We can build a cabin and kill buffalo and deer.
And pile up the sand and wash cleaner after the snow comes.
Shall we start tonight? Ought to be making tracks.
N-no, said Terry. "It'll be dark before we can pack up. Shucks!"
For the sun had set early behind the high peaks and already the dusk was creeping into the hollows.
We'll start first thing in the morning, then, declared George. "Hurrah! We've struck it, haven't we?"
That's so. The fact was so stupendous that Terry felt almost frightened over the great good fortune.
Two days there and two days back again.
He said he'd wait. He's got a sack to fill.
Hope we don't talk in our sleep, babbled George.
If we don't, nobody'll guess we're rich. We mustn't go grinning 'round, just the same, babbled Terry.
No. We'll act mad, like the rest.
And so, this evening, they were careful to appear very solemn. But of course the night was a difficult one for sleep, when a fellow's brain thronged with golden secrets.
And as early as they two were in their morning start for Gregory Gulch, others were as early. This camp of Grab-all was largely a disgruntled camp. There was no lumber on hand for sluices, the conveniently worked ground had already been taken up by the Tarryall men, most of the newcomers were short on provisions, nobody knew but that winter would set in before many weeks; and so everybody from Gregory was planning to leave as soon as he had located a claim.
In fact, when Jenny finally was packed, and in the pink dawn unwillingly stepped forth at the bidding of "Gwan! Hep, now!" from Terry and a slap on the flank from George, half a dozen outfits were heading up the trail.
Urged to make the most of her long legs, Jenny pressed after.
You boys are in more of a hurry to get out than you were to get in, seems to me, challenged one party whom they passed. "Must have heard of a new strike, eh?"
Yes, sir-ee! affirmed Terry, daringly. He had to say that much, or he'd burst, but of course the man did not believe him.
They made the trip in best time, and arrived at Gregory Gulch soon after sun-up of the third morning.