of candle and lamp.
This much the Preacher shared in common with the other sourdoughs; he preferred work to talk. Hard work at that. Hull had to argue with the tall man before he’d let the miner take his turn at the much more strenuous job of shoveling gravel into the upper end of the sluice. Any fool could walk the Long Tom’s length, searching the wooden boxes for signs of color. And when he’d protest that the Preacher was taking too long a turn with the gravel, his friend would reply that he still had five more minutes of “sermonizing with the shovel” before he’d allow Hull to take over.
He would argue, and then give in. After two years of working alone, Hull’s shoulder muscles were more than a little grateful for the respite.
He was enjoying one of those breaks at the moment, busying himself with inspecting the flow of sand over the bottom of the sluice. Rocks, and more rocks, the dull gray beneath the clear water interrupted only by an occasional flash of quartz or pyrite.
Something caught his eye, masked but not obscured by the swirling water that raced the length of the sluice. The water could not obscure it. It was bright, much too bright. Much brighter than any pyrite had a right to be. He gaped at it, wiped dirt from his face, and looked again to make sure he hadn’t imagined it.
Letting out a joyous whoop, he plunged his right hand into the frigid current and closed his fist over the object. It felt different from the surrounding gravel even beneath the water.
The Preacher dumped another load of gravel into the upper end of the Long Tom and paused to grin back at his friend. “You break your hand there, Barret?”
The miner had removed his fist from the water. Now he opened it to stare at what he’d retrieved. His fingers were turning pink from the cold, but he didn’t feel the chill.
He turned the object over in his fingers, a rapt expression on his face. It did not display the familiar octagonal crystalline bulges or the surface striations common to pyrite. It was smooth and battered where the water had tumbled it across the creek bottom. And it was brighter in hue than pyrite, with a telltale reddish tinge.
“It’s a nugget,” he was finally able to gasp. “The biggest damn nugget I’ve ever seen! Look here.” He let out another whoop of pure delight as he hurried to display his find.
The Preacher looked approvingly at the handful even as he echoed Hull’s first thoughts. “You’re sure it ain’t fool’s gold, now.”
Hull was grinning from ear to ear. “Preacher, I’ve thrown away enough pyrite to plate the U.S. Capitol. Look at it. Ain’t she beautiful, all smooth and polished by the water?” He rubbed one part of his find to remove the caked-on silt. His voice was hushed, reverent. “I never thought to see the like, ’cept in the papers. Always felt sure it was given to other men to make a strike like this, not Hull Barret. But you know something? Even while I was thinking that I never gave up hope.” His fingers tightened around the nugget.
“I knew there was gold in this creek, and not just dust. Spider knew it, and I knew it.”
“Well, don’t keep it to yourself, Barret. Good news tastes best when it’s shared.”
“Yeah, right.” He started climbing the slope, heading for the Wheeler cabin. “Hey Sarah, Megan! Have a look at this!”
Spider Conway looked up from his panning, then disgustedly tossed the contents aside as he watched Hull Barret half clamber, half run up the hillside. He directed a thin stream of tobacco juice into the mud that swirled around his ancient boots.
“It figgers.” With a snort he dipped the pan again, methodically swishing the load of sand, gravel, and water around and around, patiently letting the water remove the lighter debris as he searched for a faint trace of yellow amidst the brown, gray, and white.
His initial reaction to the discovery had been instinctive, but in reality he was quietly pleased. Hull Barret had
This much the Preacher shared in common with the other sourdoughs; he preferred work to talk. Hard work at that. Hull had to argue with the tall man before he’d let the miner take his turn at the much more strenuous job of shoveling gravel into the upper end of the sluice. Any fool could walk the Long Tom’s length, searching the wooden boxes for signs of color. And when he’d protest that the Preacher was taking too long a turn with the gravel, his friend would reply that he still had five more minutes of “sermonizing with the shovel” before he’d allow Hull to take over.
He would argue, and then give in. After two years of working alone, Hull’s shoulder muscles were more than a little grateful for the respite.
He was enjoying one of those breaks at the moment, busying himself with inspecting the flow of sand over the bottom of the sluice. Rocks, and more rocks, the dull gray beneath the clear water interrupted only by an occasional flash of quartz or pyrite.
Something caught his eye, masked but not obscured by the swirling water that raced the length of the sluice. The water could not obscure it. It was bright, much too bright. Much brighter than any pyrite had a right to be. He gaped at it, wiped dirt from his face, and looked again to make sure he hadn’t imagined it.
Letting out a joyous whoop, he plunged his right hand into the frigid current and closed his fist over the object. It felt different from the surrounding gravel even beneath the water.
The Preacher dumped another load of gravel into the upper end of the Long Tom and paused to grin back at his friend. “You break your hand there, Barret?”
The miner had removed his fist from the water. Now he opened it to stare at what he’d retrieved. His fingers were turning pink from the cold, but he didn’t feel the chill.
He turned the object over in his fingers, a rapt expression on his face. It did not display the familiar octagonal crystalline bulges or the surface striations common to pyrite. It was smooth and battered where the water had tumbled it across the creek bottom. And it was brighter in hue than pyrite, with a telltale reddish tinge.
“It’s a nugget,” he was finally able to gasp. “The biggest damn nugget I’ve ever seen! Look here.” He let out another whoop of pure delight as he hurried to display his find.
The Preacher looked approvingly at the handful even as he echoed Hull’s first thoughts. “You’re sure it ain’t fool’s gold, now.”
Hull was grinning from ear to ear. “Preacher, I’ve thrown away enough pyrite to plate the U.S. Capitol. Look at it. Ain’t she beautiful, all smooth and polished by the water?” He rubbed one part of his find to remove the caked-on silt. His voice was hushed, reverent. “I never thought to see the like, ’cept in the papers. Always felt sure it was given to other men to make a strike like this, not Hull Barret. But you know something? Even while I was thinking that I never gave up hope.” His fingers tightened around the nugget.
“I knew there was gold in this creek, and not just dust. Spider knew it, and I knew it.”
“Well, don’t keep it to yourself, Barret. Good news tastes best when it’s shared.”
“Yeah, right.” He started climbing the slope, heading for the Wheeler cabin. “Hey Sarah, Megan! Have a look at this!”
Spider Conway looked up from his panning, then disgustedly tossed the contents aside as he watched Hull Barret half clamber, half run up the hillside. He directed a thin stream of tobacco juice into the mud that swirled around his ancient boots.
“It figgers.” With a snort he dipped the pan again, methodically swishing the load of sand, gravel, and water around and around, patiently letting the water remove the lighter debris as he searched for a faint trace of yellow amidst the brown, gray, and white.
His initial reaction to the discovery had been instinctive, but in reality he was quietly pleased. Hull Barret had
Similar Books
