“Ain’t he a ring-tailed wonder?  It’s plumb solemn an’ reverent the way he makes them untamed cuss-words sit up an’ beg.  It’s a privilege to be present.  That’s a gift, that is.”

“You’d better get some dry clothes,” they suggested, and Slapjack proceeded a few paces towards the tents, hobbling as though treading on pounded glass.

“Ow—­w!” he yelled.  “These blasted boots is full of gravel.”

He seated himself and tugged at his foot till the boot came away with a sucking sound, then, instead of emptying the accumulation at random, he poured the contents into Dextry’s empty gold-pan, rinsing it out carefully.  The other boot he emptied likewise.  They held a surprising amount of sediment, because the stream that had emerged from the crack in the sluices had carried with it pebbles, sand, and all the concentration of the riffles at this point.  Standing directly beneath the cataract, most of it had dived fairly into his inviting waistband, following down the lines of least resistance into his boot-legs and boiling out at the knees.

“Wash that,” he said.  “You’re apt to get a prospect.”

With artful passes Dextry settled it in the pan bottom and washed away the gravel, leaving a yellow, glittering pile which raised a yell from the men who had lingered curiously.

“He pans forty dollars to the boot-leg,” one shouted.

“How much do you run to the foot, Slapjack?”

“He’s a reg’lar free-milling ledge.”

“No, he ain’t—­he’s too thin.  He’s nothing but a stringer, but he’ll pay to work.”

The old miner grinned toothlessly.

“Gentlemen, there ain’t no better way to save fine gold than with undercurrents an’ blanket riffles.  I’ll have to wash these garments of mine an’ clean up the soapsuds ’cause there’s a hundred dollars in gold-dust clingin’ to my person this minute.”  He went dripping up the bank, while the men returned to their work singing.

After lunch Dextry saddled his bronco.

“I’m goin’ to town for a pair of gold-scales, but I’ll be back by supper, then we’ll clean up between shifts.  She’d ought to give us a thousand ounces, the way that ground prospects.”  He loped down the gulch, while his partner returned to the pit, the flashing shovel blades, and the rumbling undertone of the big workings that so fascinated him.  It was perhaps four o’clock when he was aroused from his labors by a shout from the bunk-tent, where a group of horsemen had clustered.  As Glenister drew near, he saw among them Wilton Struve, the lawyer, and the big, well-dressed tenderfoot of the Northern—­McNamara—­the man of the heavy hand.  Struve straightway engaged him.

“Say, Glenister, we’ve come out to see about the title to this claim.”

“What about it?”

“Well, it was relocated about a month ago.”  He paused.

“Yes.  What of that?”

“Galloway has commenced suit.”