The man brought up the rear.  He threw off pack and saddle, with an eye to camp location, and gave the animals their freedom to graze.  He unpacked his food and got out frying-pan and coffee-pot.  He gathered an armful of dry wood, and with a few stones made a place for his fire.

“My!” he said, “but I’ve got an appetite.  I could scoff iron-filings an’ horseshoe nails an’ thank you kindly, ma’am, for a second helpin’.”

He straightened up, and, while he reached for matches in the pocket of his overalls, his eyes traveled across the pool to the side-hill.  His fingers had clutched the match-box, but they relaxed their hold and the hand came out empty.  The man wavered perceptibly.  He looked at his preparations for cooking and he looked at the hill.

“Guess I’ll take another whack at her,” he concluded, starting to cross the stream.

“They ain’t no sense in it, I know,” he mumbled apologetically.  “But keepin’ grub back an hour ain’t go in’ to hurt none, I reckon.”

A few feet back from his first line of test-pans he started a second line.  The sun dropped down the western sky, the shadows lengthened, but the man worked on.  He began a third line of test-pans.  He was cross-cutting the hillside, line by line, as he ascended.  The center of each line produced the richest pans, while the ends came where no colors showed in the pan.  And as he ascended the hillside the lines grew perceptibly shorter.  The regularity with which their length diminished served to indicate that somewhere up the slope the last line would be so short as to have scarcely length at all, and that beyond could come only a point.  The design was growing into an inverted “V.”  The converging sides of this “V” marked the boundaries of the gold-bearing dirt.

The apex of the “V” was evidently the man’s goal.  Often he ran his eye along the converging sides and on up the hill, trying to divine the apex, the point where the gold-bearing dirt must cease.  Here resided “Mr. Pocket”—­for so the man familiarly addressed the imaginary point above him on the slope, crying out: 

“Come down out o’ that, Mr. Pocket!  Be right smart an’ agreeable, an’ come down!”

“All right,” he would add later, in a voice resigned to determination.  “All right, Mr. Pocket.  It’s plain to me I got to come right up an’ snatch you out bald-headed.  An’ I’ll do it!  I’ll do it!” he would threaten still later.

Each pan he carried down to the water to wash, and as he went higher up the hill the pans grew richer, until he began to save the gold in an empty baking powder can which he carried carelessly in his hip-pocket.  So engrossed was he in his toil that he did not notice the long twilight of oncoming night.  It was not until he tried vainly to see the gold colors in the bottom of the pan that he realized the passage of time.  He straightened up abruptly.  An expression of whimsical wonderment and awe overspread his face as he drawled: