TO THE POUND-A-DAY
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."