“I don’ got to prospec’ him,” ’Poleon asserted.  “Dat’s good t’ing ’bout dat claim.  Some Swede fellers above me cross-cut de whole dam’ creek an’ don’ fin’ so much as one color.  Sapre!  Dat’s fonny creek.  She ’ain’t got no gravel.”  The speaker threw back his head and laughed heartily.  “It’s fac’!  I’scover de only creek on all de Yukon wit’out gravel.  Muck!  Twenty feet of solid frozen muck!  It’s lucky I stake on soch bum place, eh?  S’pose all winter I dig an’ don’ fin’ ’im out?”

For a moment Rouletta remained silent; then she said, wearily: 

“Everything is all wrong, all upside down, isn’t it?  The McCaskeys struck pay; so did Tom and Jerry.  But you—­why, in all your years in this country you’ve never found anything.  Where’s the justice—­ "

“No, no!  I fin’ somet’ing more better as dem feller.  I fin’ a sister; I fin’ you.  By Gar!  I don’t trade you for t’ousan’ pay-streak!” Lowering his voice, ‘Poleon said, earnestly, “I don’ know how much I love you, ma soeur, until I go ’way and t’ink ’bout it.”

Rouletta smiled mistily and touched the big fellow’s hand, whereupon he continued: 

“All dese year I look in de mos’ likely spot for gold, an’ don’ fin’ him.  Wal, I mak’ change.  I don’ look in no more creek-bottom; I’m goin’ hit de high spot!”

Reproachfully the girl exclaimed, “You promised me to cut that out.”

With a grin the woodsman reassured her:  “No, no!  I mean I’m goin’ dig on top de mountains.”

“Not—­really?  Why, ’Poleon, gold is heavy!  It sinks.  It’s deep down in the creek-beds.”

“It sink, sure ’nough,” he nodded, “but where it sink from, eh?  I don’ lak livin’ in low place, anyhow—­you don’ see not’in’.  Me, I mus’ have good view.”

“What are you driving at?”

“I tell you:  long tam ago I know old miner.  He’s forever talk ‘bout high bars, old reever-bed, an’ soch t’ing.  We call him ’High Bar.’  He mak’ fonny story ’bout reever dat used to was on top de mountain.  By golly!  I laugh at him!  But w’at you t’ink?  I’m crossin’ dose hill ‘bove El Dorado an’ I see place where dose miner is shoot dry timber down into de gulch.  Dose log have dug up de snow an’ I fin’—­what?” Impressively the speaker whispered one word, “Gravel!”

Much to his disappointment, Rouletta remained impassive in the face of this startling announcement.  Vaguely she inquired:  “What of it?  There’s gravel everywhere.  What you want is gold—­”

“Mon Dieu!” ’Poleon lifted his hands in despair.  “You’re worse as cheechako.  Where gravel is dere you fin’ gold, ain’t you?”

“Why—­not always.”

With a shrug the woodsman agreed.  “Of course, not always, but—­”

“On top of a hill?”

“De tip top.”

“How perfectly absurd!  How could gold run uphill?”