Bill had finished panning the concentrates from our last clean-up,
and now the silver ball of amalgam sizzled and fried on the shovel
over the little chip-fire, while we smoked in the sun before the
cabin. Removed from the salivating fumes of the quicksilver, we
watched the yellow tint grow and brighten in the heat.
"There's two diseases which the doctors ain't got any license to
monkey with," began Bill, chewing out blue smoke from his lungs with
each word, "and they're both fevers. After they butt into your
system they stick crossways, like a swallered toothpick; there ain't
any patent medicine that can bust their holt."