They reached Black Peter Gulch and found Twitchett’s hut still unoccupied, save by a solitary rattlesnake, whose warning scared them not.  Mr. Baker carefully covered the single window with his coat, and then Boylston lit a candle and examined the clay floor.  There were several little depressions in its surface, and in each of these Boylston vigorously drove his pick, while Mr. Baker stood outside alternately looking out for would-be disturbers, and looking in through a crack in the door to see that his partner should not, in case he found the can, absentmindedly spill some of the contents into his own pocket before he made a formal division.

Boylston stopped a moment for breath, leaned on his pick, stroked his yellow beard thoughtfully, and offered to bet that it would be an oyster-can.  Mr. Baker whispered through the crack that he would take that bet, and make it an ounce.

Boylston again bent to the labor, which, while it wearied his body, seemed to excite his imagination, for he paused long enough to bet that it would be a five-pound powder-can, and Mr. Baker, again willing to fortify himself against possible loss, accepted the bet in ounces.

Suddenly Boylston’s pick brought to light something yellow and round—­something the size of an oyster-can, and wrapped in a piece of oilskin.

“You’ve won one, bet,” whispered Mr. Baker, who was inside before the yellow package had ceased rolling across the floor.

“Not ef this is it,” growled Boylston; “it don’t weigh more’n ounce can, wrapper and all.  Might’s well see what ’tis, though.”

The two men approached the candle, hastily tore off the oilskin, and carefully shook the contents from the can.  The contents proved to be a small package, labeled:  “My only treasures.”

Boylston mentioned the name of the arch-adversary of souls, while Mr. Baker, with a well-directed blow of his heel, reduced the can from a cylindrical form to one not easily described by any geometric term.

Unwrapping the package, Mr. Baker discovered a picture-case, which, when opened, disclosed the features of a handsome young lady; while from the wrappings fell a small envelope, which seemed distended in the middle.

“Gold in that, mebbe,” suggested Boylston, picking it up and opening it.  It was gold; fine, yellow, and brilliant, but not the sort of gold the dead man’s friends were seeking, for it was a ringlet of hair.

Sadly Mr. Baker put on his coat, careless of the light which streamed through the window; slowly and sorely they wended their way homeward; wrathfully they bemoaned their wasted time, as they passed by the auriferous slumberers of Greenhorn’s Bar; depressing was the general nature of their conversation.  Yet they were human in spite of their disappointment, for, as old Deacon Baggs, who was an early riser, strolled out in the gray dawn for a quiet season of meditation, he saw Boylston Smith filling up a little hole he had made on top of Old Twitchett’s grave, and putting the dirt down very tenderly with his hands.