“That’s Anvil Creek up yonder,” said Glenister.  “There’s where the Midas lies.  See!” He indicated a gap in the buttress of mountains rolling back from the coast.  “It’s the greatest creek in the world.  You’ll see gold by the mule-load, and hillocks of nuggets.  Oh, I’m glad to get back.  This is life.  That stretch of beach is full of gold.  These hills are seamed with quartz.  The bed-rock of that creek is yellow.  There’s gold, gold, gold, everywhere—­more than ever was in old Solomon’s mines—­and there’s mystery and peril and things unknown.”

“Let us make haste,” said the girl.  “I have something I must do to-night.  After that, I can learn to know these things.”

Securing a small boat, they were rowed ashores the partners plying their ferryman with eager questions.  Having arrived five days before, he was exploding with information and volunteered the fruits of his ripe experience till Dextry stated that they were “sourdoughs” themselves, and owned the Midas, whereupon Miss Chester marvelled at the awe which sat upon the man and the wondering stare with which he devoured the partners, to her own utter exclusion.

“Sufferin’ cats!  Look at the freight!” ejaculated Dextry.  “If a storm come up it would bust the community!”

The beach they neared was walled and crowded to the high-tide mark with ramparts of merchandise, while every incoming craft deposited its quota upon whatever vacant foot was close at hand, till bales, boxes, boilers, and baggage of all kinds were confusedly intermixed in the narrow space.  Singing longshoremen trundled burdens from the lighters and piled them on the heap, while yelling, cursing crowds fought over it all, selecting, sorting, loading.

There was no room for more, yet hourly they added to the mass.  Teams splashed through the lapping surf or stuck in the deep sand between hillocks of goods.  All was noise, profanity, congestion, and feverish hurry.  This burning haste rang in the voice of the multitude, showed in its violence of gesture and redness of face, permeated the atmosphere with a magnetic, electrifying energy.

“It’s somethin’ fierce ashore,” said the oarsman.  “I been up fer three days an’ nights steady—­there ain’t no room, nor time, nor darkness to sleep in.  Ham an’ eggs is a dollar an’ a half, an’ whiskey’s four bits a throw.”  He wailed the last, sadly, as a complaint unspeakable.

“Any trouble doin’?” inquired the old man.

“You know it!” the other cried, colloquially.  “There was a massacree in the Northern last night.”

“Gamblin’ row?”

“Yep.  Tin-horn called ‘Missou’ done it.”

“Sho!” said Dextry.  “I know him.  He’s a bad actor.”  All three men nodded sagely, and the girl wished for further light, but they volunteered no explanation.

Leaving the skiff, they plunged into turmoil.  Dodging through the tangle, they came out into fenced lots where tents stood wall to wall and every inch was occupied.  Here and there was a vacant spot guarded jealously by its owner, who gazed sourly upon all men with the forbidding eye of suspicion.  Finding an eddy in the confusion, the men stopped.