Part 25 (2/2)

”Valuable? I should say so,” he grinned. ”I sent a sample to a Chicago firm once. They replied to the effect that they would take all I could deliver, and pay thirty-six dollars a ton, f. o. b., my nearest railroad station.”

”Oh!” she protested. ”But they're pretty.”

”Yes, if you can find one of any size. What's the other rock?” he inquired casually. ”You making a collection of specimens?”

”That's just a funny stone I found,” she returned. ”It must be iron or something. It's terribly heavy for its size.”

”Eh? Let me see it,” he said.

She handed it over.

He weighed it in his palm, scrutinized it closely, turning it over and over. Then he took out his knife and scratched the rusty surface vigorously for a few minutes.

”Huh!” he grunted. ”Look at your funny stone.”

He held it out for her inspection. The blade of his knife had left a dull, yellow scar.

”Oh!” she gasped. ”Why--it's gold!”

”It is, woman,” he declaimed, with mock solemnity. ”Gold--glittering gold!

”Say, where did you find this?” he asked, when Hazel stared at the nugget, dumb in the face of this unexpected stroke of fortune.

”Just around the second bend,” she cried. ”Oh, Bill, do you suppose there's any more there?”

”Lead me to it with my trusty pan and shovel, and we'll see,” Bill smiled.

Forthwith they set out. The overhanging bowlder was a scant ten minute's walk up the creek.

Bill leaned on his shovel, and studied the ground. Then, getting down on his knees at the spot where the marks of Hazel's scratching showed plain enough, he began to paw over the gravel.

Within five minutes his fingers brought to light a second lump, double the size of her find. Close upon that he winnowed a third. Hazel leaned over him, breathless. He sifted the gravel and sand through his fingers slowly, picking out and examining all that might be the precious metal, and as he picked and clawed the rusty, brown nuggets came to light. At last he reached bottom. The bowlder thrust out below in a natural shelf. From this Bill carefully sc.r.a.ped the acc.u.mulation of black sand and gravel, gleaning as a result of his labor a baker's dozen of a.s.sorted chunks--one giant that must have weighed three pounds. He sat back on his haunches, and looked at his wife, speechless.

”Is that truly _all_ gold, Bill?” she whispered incredulously.

”It certainly is--as good gold as ever went into the mint,” he a.s.sured.

”All laid in a nice little nest on this shelf of rock. I've heard of such things up in this country, but I never ran into one before--and I've always taken this pocket theory with a grain of salt. But there you are. That's a real, honest-to-G.o.d pocket. And a well-lined one, if you ask me. This rusty-colored outside is oxidized iron--from the black sand, I guess. Still, it might be something else. But I know what the inside is, all right, all right.”

”My goodness!” she murmured. ”There might be wagonloads of it in this creek.”

”There might, but it isn't likely.” Bill shook his head. ”This is a simon-pure pocket, and it would keep a graduate mineralogist guessing to say how it got here, because it's a different proposition from the wash gold in the creek bed. I've got all that's here, I'm pretty sure.

And you might prospect this creek from end to end and never find another nugget bigger than a pea. It's rich placer ground, at that--but this pocket's almost unbelievable. Must be forty pounds of gold there. And you found it. You're the original mascot, little person.”

He bestowed a bearlike hug upon her.

”Now what?” she asked. ”It hardly seems real to pick up several thousand dollars in half an hour or so like this. What will we do?”

”Do? Why, bless your dear soul,” he laughed. ”We'll just consider ourselves extra lucky, and keep right on with the game till the high water makes us quit.”

<script>