Grump arose, and softly went to a corner which was hidden by the chimney.

“Gone for his knife, I’ll bet,” whispered the colonel to himself.  “I hope Tom don’t spile my mad by firin’ fust.”

Grump returned to view; but instead of a knife, he bore another blanket, which he gently spread over his sleeping guest, then he lay down beside Mix with a log of wood for a pillow.

The colonel withdrew his pistol, and softly muttered to himself a dozen or two enormous oaths; then he arose, straightened out his cramped legs, and started to find Tom.  That worthy had started on a similar errand, and on meeting, the two stared at each other in the moonlight as blankly as a couple of well-preserved mummies.

“S’pose the boys’ll believe us?” whispered the colonel.

“We ken bring ’em down to see the show themselves, ef they don’t,” replied Tom.

The colonel’s report was productive of the choicest assortment of ejaculations that had been heard in camp since Natchez, the leader of the Vinegar Gulch Boys, joined the Church and commenced preaching.

The good-natured Bozen was for drinking Grump’s health at once, but the colonel demurred.  So did Slim Sam.

“He’s goin’ to make him work on sheers, or some hocus-pocusin’ arrangement, an’ he can’t afford to hev him git sick.  That’s what his kindness amounts to,” said Sam.

“Ur go fur his gratitude—­and dust, when he gets any,” suggested another, and no one repelled the insinuation.

It was evident, however, that there was but little chance of either inquest or funeral from Grump’s, and the crowd finally dispersed with the confirmed assurance that there would be one steady cause of excitement for some time to come.

Next morning young Mix staked a claim adjoining Grump.  The colonel led him aside, bound him to secrecy and told him that there was a far richer dirt further down the stream.  The young man pointed toward the hut, and replied: 

“He sed ‘twas payin’ dirt, an’ I ort to take his advice, seein’ he giv me a pick an’ shovel an’ pan—­sed he’d hev to git new ones anyhow.”

“Thunder!” ejaculated the colonel, more puzzled than ever knowing well how a miner will cling as long as possible to tools with which he is acquainted.

“Jest wait till that boy gets a bag of dust,” said a miner, when the colonel had narrated the second wonder.  “The express agent’ll be here next week to git what fellers wants to send to their folks—­the boy’ll want to send some to his’n—­his bag’ll be missin’ ’bout then—­jist wait, and ef my words don’t come true, call me greaser.”

The colonel pondered over the prophecy, and finally determined on another vigil outside Grump’s hut.

Meanwhile, Grump’s Pet, as Mix had been nicknamed, afforded the camp a great deal of amusement.  He was not at all reserved, and was easily drawn out on the subject of his protector, of whom he spoke in terms of unmeasured praise.