“No. I am more ambitious.”
“Petrie Creek!” exclaimed MacCaskill. “I’ll have the other creek and
valley. Golden gates! MacCaskill Gulch! What?”
“Am I to have nothing?” said Akshelah.
“You shall have the river, my girl,” said Hanafin kindly.
The features of the landscape began to stand out as we crossed the
hills.
“MacCaskill is a great creek,” said Hanafin, with a trace of
excitement; and the old man between us grinned foolishly in the delight
of having his name recorded geographically.
“I don’t know the first thing ’bout minin’,” he admitted. “I guess
I can wash out dirt, but any galoot can do that. What’s that you’ve
picked up?”
“Galena,” said the inspector. “Lead ore.” He began to punish it with
his little hammer, and indicated a tiny white seam with the word,
“Silver.”
MacCaskill snatched at it.
“Let’s feel. How much is it worth?”
“Possibly two-thirds of one cent,” said Hanafin drily, and the factor
flung away the lump in disgust.
While we were walking towards the Akshelah, Hanafin began to reply at
length to one of MacCaskill’s questions.
“How to prospect, eh? Well, we have a theory that the deposits of gold
are stored in certain unknown places, and are distributed about the
main bed of a river by means of the creeks or gulches. When we have
selected a creek, we look for the spot where it bends or slants under
the side of the rock, because, if there is gold to be found in that
particular creek, we shall find it there, though it does not by any
means follow that the bend will prove to be the richest spot in the
valley. We prospect at the angle merely to ascertain whether there is
any gold in the creek or not. The next thing to do is to strike a hole
to bed-rock, and that’s where the work begins. It is best done in the
winter, when the water is frozen.”
Hanafin broke off, and looked straight ahead with anger upon his face.
We were close to the river, near a shallow part where a bar of gravel
made a bridge across three-fourths of the stream. Hanafin turned to
Akshelah.
“Do you see those stakes, my girl? There!”
“Yes,” said Akshelah, and when she spoke I saw them, too.
“They mean that we are not the first here. Some miner has been before
us, and has staked out the claim below the forks.”
“Then we’ll get to work, and pull up his posts,” suggested MacCaskill.
“So there is at least one experienced miner already in Bonanza,” began
Hanafin.
“And his name is Redpath,” I added.
“What an indomitable man!” exclaimed Hanafin. “Directly Petrie had
opened the hole, he must have fought his passage through the mosquitos,
and here he is, washing out for all he’s worth.”
“There are no men,” said Akshelah.
“Not likely. Directly they saw us come out of the channel they would
have escaped into their holes,” said Hanafin. “Well, let’s make a raft.”
We cut down the three largest spruce trees we could find, lopped them,
and dragged the logs thus made across the bar to the water. While I
cut the notches in these logs, the others went for the smaller trees,
and when we had sufficient, our raft was quickly afloat and across
the narrow channel, which was nowhere more than four feet in depth,
MacCaskill pushing with a white birch pole on one side and I upon the
other. We went up to the side of the hill and down to where the creeks
forked, until we reached the claim which had just been opened.
“Two men!” cried Akshelah, pointing out the tracks.
Hanafin measured the distance with his eye, saying:
“A gulch claim is two hundred and fifty feet from post to post. Redpath
is no amateur. A legal post stands four feet above ground, and is flat
on both sides for at least one foot from the top. You see, these posts
are perfectly legal.”
“Can’t we pull ’em up?” asked the factor, and when the inspector had
replied in the negative, he objected:
“They ain’t legal miners.”
“Can you give me proof that the men do not hold free miners’
certificates?” said Hanafin sharply. “This claim cannot be touched
unless the miner who has staked assigns, or allows his ownership to
lapse.”
“And by all the gold of Jerusalem, here he comes!” shouted MacCaskill.
Down the hillside Olaffson proceeded unconcernedly, making a straight
line for us, and presently we could hear him whistling.
“Mornin’!” he called insolently, when half-a-dozen yards away.
“Well?” said Hanafin, fixing him with his keen glance. “What’s your
business?”
“With you, mister. You’re mining recorder of the district, I guess?”
“Yes; until the Department makes an appointment.”
“I want to take out a miner’s certificate, an’ I want to record a
claim.”
“You do, eh?” called MacCaskill, moving out menacingly. “And what
you’ll get is an everlastin’ poundin’ with a spruce stick--”
“If there’s anything personal between you and this man, wait till I
have done with him,” interrupted Hanafin curtly.
The factor turned to me, growling and fuming, and I was hot enough to
say:
“We’ve got a lot against him. He burnt my house at Yellow Sands. He
tried to settle me at Gull--”
“I’ve not fallen in love with the man,” interposed Hanafin. “Anyhow,
the charges you bring are rather outside my jurisdiction. This man is
merely an agent. He is repeating the lessons his principal has taught
him. Did Redpath ask you to take out a certificate for him as well?” he
asked ironically.
The stunted figure held its ground.
“Redpath’s gone.”
“Who’s been working this claim with you?”
“An old Indian.”
“Lift up your foot,” ordered Hanafin.
The Icelander looked startled, but thought it best to obey.
Hanafin called Akshelah.
“Look at that boot. Now will you find me one of his partner’s tracks?”
Akshelah found it immediately upon the hard sand. Hanafin knelt by the
impression, took a little tape-measure from his pocket, and measured it
every way. When he had finished, he consulted his pocket-book. Then he
smiled.
“When Redpath escaped me that night he shot the trooper, I took the
precaution of measuring a footprint he left in the mud before mounting.
Now I am able to prove that this man is a liar!”
MacCaskill chuckled. The scoundrels had met more than their match.
“You may carry a message from me to your master,” went on Hanafin, and
he scribbled upon a leaf of the ever-present pocket-book, and gave
the note into the Icelander’s short hand. Then he said: “Give me ten
dollars.”
“Yes, mister,” said Olaffson, and his face became almost cheerful as he
handed over the money, which he had ready in bills crushed up in his
hand. Hanafin began to write again, and he spoke each word aloud as he
set it down:
“Dominion of Canada. Free miner’s certificate. Non-transferable. Date.
Number One. Valid for one year only. This is to certify that--What’s
your first name?”
“Don’t know.”
“Olaffson,” wrote down the inspector. “Where do you come from?”
“Anywhere.”
“Of Hanafin City,” wrote the owner of the name, a smile about his
mouth, “has paid me this day the sum of ten dollars, and is entitled
to all the rights and privileges of a free miner for one year from the
date of this certificate.” He wrote his signature, tore out the leaf,
and gave it to the applicant. “Come to my office after noon to-morrow
to record your claim. A grant for placer-mining is too lengthy to make
out here. The fee will be fifteen dollars.”
“Here it is, mister!” exclaimed the Icelander, holding out his other
hand.
“You have learnt your lesson well. I cannot take the money now. Bring
it to-morrow to my office in Front Street. And remember,” he added
curtly, “this is your claim, and any other man who works upon it
without your consent renders himself liable to be arrested.”
As we turned away, MacCaskill began to complain.
“Why did you want to use him so good?” he demanded.
Hanafin answered contentedly: “I think I have checkmated Redpath.
Wait until you see how Olaffson’s noble character develops under what
I have said to him.” His manner changed, and he went on briskly:
“Let’s prospect. If there is gold in the creek, we shall find surface
indications beneath yonder rocks. I’ll wash out the first pan for luck.”
He stopped just under the bank, where the creek bent obliquely,
and taking MacCaskill’s shovel, rapidly cleared away the surface
accumulations, and turned up the coarse gravel and stones, throwing
this waste aside with quick, easy motions.
“Now for pay-dirt!”
He lifted a little of the finer gravel into the pan, which MacCaskill
held out with nervous hands.
“First we strike our bar,” said Hanafin, as we went down to where the
water ran to the river, “then wash out a few panfuls of the gravel or
sand, and watch for the colours. By the number we find it becomes easy
after a little experience to calculate how much in cold cash the bar
will yield daily.”
“This dirt’s awful rich!” gasped MacCaskill, shifting the pan from side
to side. “Look at the specks a-glitterin’!”
“Wait until the water goes in. Give me the pan.”
Hanafin took the shallow steel dish, and inserted it into the water
with a deft side motion, bringing it out again with the same movement.
A cry of admiration broke from the mercurial factor when a host of
sparklets sprang towards the surface of the pan, and settled down
slowly through the water, turning over and over.
“Look at that, Rupe!” he shouted, hitting me with his elbow.
“No good,” said Hanafin grimly; and MacCaskill’s joy departed from him.
“What! Ain’t that gold?” he asked angrily.
“Flake gold. There’s less than one cent’s worth there. Those specks
are flatter than gold-leaf. If there is pay-dirt, it will be among the
black sand at the bottom.”
The inspector continued to whirl the pan, and then he inclined it,
still shaking, with a more gentle and rotary movement, and we saw the
gravel washed out into the water of the creek, until nothing was left
except a deposit of black sand, which we learnt was pulverised magnetic
iron ore.
“Fine or coarse, or none at all?” the inspector muttered, bending low.
“I suppose fine dirt ain’t no pay?” suggested MacCaskill morosely.
“Yes, but it involves slow and laborious methods,” replied the man who
shook the pan. “We should have to introduce a little mercury to form an
amalgam with the gold. This amalgam we should then heat on a shovel,
until the mercury had been given off in vapour, and the gold would
remain in a lump. Look there!”
He had washed away nearly all the black sand, and now pointed to some
tiny specks nestling by themselves in a corner of the pan.
“Coarse--ten cents at the least.”
“Golden gates!” exclaimed MacCaskill. “You call this gold-minin’! I
wouldn’t a-troubled to have picked out that little bit of stuff.”
“Ten cents to one pan is excellent pay. Far less than that gives a grub
stake,” said Hanafin. Then he looked up at MacCaskill’s dissatisfied
countenance. “Nobody who has not been a miner understands anything
about this business. Whenever the discovery cry gets heard, thousands
come racing out of the world full of the idea that they are just going
to stake, record, dig and pick out lumps of solid gold, which they
will exchange for cash, and return to the world with a fortune. This
is the reality. This is a rich country, boys, which is going to make
millionaires. Now I’ll show you where to stake.”
We followed Hanafin to where the creeks joined, and below this
junction, going in the direction of the running water, between
Olaffson’s claim and the river, he stopped.
“The gold from both creeks should be held here. Number One claim may be
the richest, as Redpath guessed. Cut your stakes, and I’ll measure out.”
When we had staked out Number Three, which was the factor’s, I went
back to my own. On the flatted side of the post I saw that Hanafin had
fastened a piece of paper, and I found to my great delight that I was
able to read what he had written. The paper bore the name of my claim,
“Number Two MacCaskill,” its length, the date, and my name in full.
But “Number Four MacCaskill” was being staked, and Hanafin smiled
mysteriously as he affixed its description on the flat side of the near
post.
“Mr. John Smith!” exclaimed MacCaskill, after reading. “Who in
Jerusalem’s he?”
Hanafin’s mysterious smile continued.
“He’s something by necessity out of red-tape,” he said. “It’s not for
me to break the letter of the law, but a man must help himself when he
has nothing beyond his pay. I know, anyhow, that you won’t give ‘Mr.
Smith’ away.”
“Good luck to ye!” exclaimed the factor heartily, and I endorsed his
cry.
We ferried back across the Akshelah, climbed up the channel, and so
back towards Mosquito Hole.
MacCaskill had one question to ask:
“What might that message have been you sent to Redpath?”
Hanafin replied:
“The man has gone too far. I am after him for the shooting of one of
my own boys, and he stakes out a claim under my nose, and sends his
partner to me to record for him. The message I sent was that I had
given instructions for him to be shot on sight.”
And MacCaskill chuckled delightedly.
We reached the brow, where we could take our last look over Bonanza,
and here Akshelah called out. Two pigmy figures were to be seen toiling
and sweating upon “Number One MacCaskill.”
Hanafin broke the silence.
“One can’t help admiring sheer perseverance. We will leave him to his
treasure-hunting now, but to-morrow we shall all be down there, and
then--exit Redpath.”
We descended the canyon, but by the time we regained the defile, old
friends were awaiting us--Lennie, Pete, Dave, and company, all with
great packs containing supplies they had taken from the _Carillon_.
They greeted us loudly, and not without a certain amount of chaff.
“So you have got here, you crowd!” said MacCaskill, very morosely.
“And we ain’t here for our health either,” piped Lennie joyously.
“The ole boat can lie on the mud while I stake out me claim. I ain’t
cheatin’ anyone. See? She belongs to rich companies, an’ ye can’t cheat
companies.”
“Say! ain’t you ben hustlin’?” exclaimed Pete admiringly. “Run a big
buildin’ up in jest no time, ye have!”
The soldiers had done their work quickly, and the log-house looked well
upon the long green slope.
Suddenly Hanafin stepped out of the aperture left for the door, and
fastened a notice outside.