News of the John Daniels strike reached Ophir in July, when a ragged,
unkempt man arrived in a poling-boat. He was one of the party that had
camped west of McGill, and he ate a raw potato with the ravenous
appetite of an animal while waiting for his first meal at the Miner's
Rest. Between mouthfuls he gave the word that set the town ablaze.
When he had bought a ton of grub at the A. C. store and weighed out
payment in bright pumpkin-seed gold he went to Hopper's saloon and
handed the proprietor a folded paper.
Hopper read it uncomprehendingly.
"This is a location notice, recorded in my name," the latter said,
turning the document uncomprehendingly as if to see if it contained a
message on the reverse side.
The stranger nodded. "Number Four Above, on John Daniels Creek. John
staked for you, and told me to tell you to come. We've struck it rich."
Hopper's hand shook; he stared at the speaker in bewilderment. "John
Daniels? I don't seem to remember him."
"He's a big slab-sided man with a deep voice and eyes like ice."