HORACE GREELEY COMES TO TOWN
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."