MOVING A SHACK

Less than a week had passed since Bostwick’s arrival in Goldite, but excitement was rife in the air.  Despite the angered protests of half a thousand mining men, the Easterner, with four of the shrewdest prospectors in the State, had traversed the entire mineral region of the reservation in the utmost security and assurance.  Five hundred men had been forced to remain at the border, at the points of official guns.  A few desperate adventurers had crept through the guard, but nearly all were presently captured and ejected from the place, while Bostwick—­granted special privileges—­was assuming this inside track.

The day for the opening of the lands was less than two weeks off—­and the news leaked out and spread like a wind that the “Laughing Water” claim had suddenly promised amazing wealth as a placer where Van and his partners were taking out the gold by the simplest, most primitive of methods.

The rush for the region came like a stampede of cattle.  An army of men went swarming over the ridges and overran the country like a plague of ants.  They trooped across the border of the reservation, so close to the “Laughing Water” claim, they staked out all the visible world, above, below, and all about Van’s property, they tore down each others’ monuments, including a number where Van had located new, protective claims, and they builded a tent town over night, not a mile from his first discovery.

At the claim in the cove the fortunate holders of a private treasury of gold had lost no time.  In the absence of better lumber, for which they had no money, Van and his partners had torn down the shaft-house, made it into sluices, and turned in the water from the stream.  That was all the plant required.  They had then commenced to shovel the gravel into the trough-like boxes, and the gold had begun to lodge behind the riffles.

The cove became a theatre of curiosity, envy, and covetous longings.  Men came there by motor, on horses, mules, and on foot to take one delirious look and rush madly about to improve what chances still remained.  The fame of it swept like prairie fire, far and wide.  The new-made town began at once to spread and encroach upon all who were careless of their holdings.  Lawlessness was rampant.

At the cabin on the “Laughing Water” claim Algy, the Chinese cook, was still disabled.  Gettysburg was chief culinary artist.  Napoleon hustled for grub, the only supplies of which were over at Goldite—­and expensive.  All were constantly exhausted with the labors of the day.

Despite their vigilance they awoke one morning to see a brand-new cabin standing on the claim, at the top of a hill.  A man was on the rough pine roof, rapidly laying weather paper.  Van beheld him, watched him for a moment, then quietly walked over to the site.

“Say, friend,” he called to the man on the roof, “you’ve broken into Eden by mistake.  This property is mine and I haven’t any building lots to sell.”