Still moving down the stream, he panned again.  A single speck was his reward.  A third pan contained no gold at all.  Not satisfied with this, he panned three times again, taking his shovels of dirt within a foot of one another.  Each pan proved empty of gold, and the fact, instead of discouraging him, seemed to give him satisfaction.  His elation increased with each barren washing, until he arose, exclaiming jubilantly: 

“If it ain’t the real thing, may God knock off my head with sour apples!”

Returning to where he had started operations, he began to pan up the stream.  At first his golden herds increased—­increased prodigiously.  “Fourteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-six,” ran his memory tabulations.  Just above the pool he struck his richest pan—­thirty-five colors.

“Almost enough to save,” he remarked regretfully as he allowed the water to sweep them away.

The sun climbed to the top of the sky.  The man worked on.  Pan by pan, he went up the stream, the tally of results steadily decreasing.

“It’s just booful, the way it peters out,” he exulted when a shovelful of dirt contained no more than a single speck of gold.  And when no specks at all were found in several pans, he straightened up and favored the hillside with a confident glance.

“Ah, ha!  Mr. Pocket!” he cried out, as though to an auditor hidden somewhere above him beneath the surface of the slope.  “Ah, ha!  Mr. Pocket!  I’m a-comin’, I’m a-comin’, an’ I’m shorely gwine to get yer!  You heah me, Mr. Pocket?  I’m gwine to get yer as shore as punkins ain’t cauliflowers!”

He turned and flung a measuring glance at the sun poised above him in the azure of the cloudless sky.  Then he went down the canyon, following the line of shovel-holes he had made in filling the pans.  He crossed the stream below the pool and disappeared through the green screen.  There was little opportunity for the spirit of the place to return with its quietude and repose, for the man’s voice, raised in ragtime song, still dominated the canyon with possession.

After a time, with a greater clashing of steel-shod feet on rock, he returned.  The green screen was tremendously agitated.  It surged back and forth in the throes of a struggle.  There was a loud grating and clanging of metal.  The man’s voice leaped to a higher pitch and was sharp with imperativeness.  A large body plunged and panted.  There was a snapping and ripping and rending, and amid a shower of falling leaves a horse burst through the screen.  On its back was a pack, and from this trailed broken vines and torn creepers.  The animal gazed with astonished eyes at the scene into which it had been precipitated, then dropped its head to the grass and began contentedly to graze.  A second horse scrambled into view, slipping once on the mossy rocks and regaining equilibrium when its hoofs sank into the yielding surface of the meadow.  It was riderless, though on its back was a high-horned Mexican saddle, scarred and discolored by long usage.