Part 3 (1/2)

”Don't look down; look up; look acrost,” Uncle Bill advised. ”You're liable to bounce off this hill if you don't take care. h.e.l.lo,” he said to himself, staring at the river which lay like a great, green snake at the base of the mountains, ”must be some feller down there placerin'.

That's a new cabin, and there's a rocker--looks like.”

”Gold?” Sprudell's eyes became a shade less infantile.

”Gold a-plenty; but it takes a lard can full to make a cent and there's no way to get water on the ground.”

Uncle Bill stood conjecturing as to who it might be, as though it were of importance that he should know before he left. Interest in his neighbor and his neighbor's business is a strong characteristic of the miner and prospector in these, our United States, and Uncle Bill Griswold in this respect was no exception. It troubled him for hours that he could not guess who was placering below.

”Looks like it's gittin' ready for a storm,” he said finally. ”We'd better sift along. Foller clost to me and keep a-comin', for we don't want to get caught out 'way off from camp. We've stayed too long in the mountains for that matter, with the little grub that's left. We'll pull out to-morrow.”

”Which way you going?” Sprudell asked plaintively.

”We gotta work our way around this mountain to that ridge.” Uncle Bill s.h.i.+fted the meat to the other shoulder, and travelled along the steep side with the sure-footed swiftness of a venerable mountain goat.

Sprudell shut his trembling lips together and followed as best he could.

He was paying high, he felt, for the privilege of entertaining the Bartlesville Commercial Club with stories of his prowess. He doubted if he would get over the nervous strain in months, for, after all, Sprudell was fifty, and such experiences told. Never--never, he said to himself when a rolling rock started by his feet bounded from point to point to remind him how easily he could do the same, never would he take such chances again! It wasn't worth it. His life was too valuable. Inwardly he was furious that Uncle Bill should have brought him by such a way.

His heart turned over and lay down with a flop when he saw that person stop and heard him say:

”Here's kind of a bad place; you'd better let me take your gun.”

Kind of a bad place! When he'd been frisking on the edge of eternity.

Uncle Bill waited near a bank of slide rock that extended from the mountain top to a third of the way down the side, after which it went off sheer.

”'Tain't no picnic, crossin' slide rock, but I reckon if I kin make it with a gun and half a sheep on my back you can make it empty-handed.

Step easy, and don't start it slippin' or you'll slide to kingdom come.

Watch me!”

Sprudell watched with all his eyes. The little old man, who boasted that he weighed only one hundred and thirty with his winter tallow on, skimmed the surface like a water spider, scarcely jarring loose a rock.

Sprudell knew that he could never get across like that. Fear would make him heavy-footed if nothing else.

”Hurry up!” the old man shouted impatiently. ”We've no time to lose.

Dark's goin' to ketch us sure as shootin', and it's blowin' up plumb cold.”

Sprudell nerved himself and started, stepping as gingerly as he could; but in spite of his best efforts his feet came down like pile drivers, disturbing rocks each time he moved.

Griswold watched him anxiously, and finally called:

”You're makin' more fuss than a cow elk! Step easy er you're goin' to start the whole darn works. Onct it gits to movin', half that bank'll go.”

Sprudell was nearly a third of the way across when the shale began to move, slowly at first, with a gentle rattle, then faster. He gave a shout of terror and floundered, panic-stricken, where he stood.

The old man danced in frenzy:

”Job in your heels and run like h.e.l.l!”

But the ma.s.s had started, and was moving faster. Sprudell's feet went from under him, and he collapsed in a limp heap. Then he turned over and scrabbled madly with hands and feet for something that would hold.