“Boys,” he began, “there has been a gold strike at the head of the White River, and you want to go.  I don’t blame you; I’d like to go myself, if there’s any chance to make money.”

“You’re all right, boss!” shouted some one; and a general laugh attested the crowd’s relief at this acceptance of the inevitable.  They had expected argument, despite the contrary assurances they had received.

“Now we all want an even break.  We want to know all there is to know, so that a few fellows won’t have the advantage of the rest.  The strike is three hundred miles away; it’s winter, and—­you know what that means.  I talked with Baker and Thorn this afternoon.  I want them to tell you just what they told me.  That’s why I called this meeting.  If you decide to go you won’t have to waste time going to Omar after your outfits, for I’ll sell you what you want from my supplies.  And I’ll sell at cost.”

There was a yell of approval, a cheer for the speaker; then came calls for Baker and Thorn.

The two miners were thrust forward, and the embarrassed Thorn, who had acted as spokesman, was boosted to a table.  Under Murray’s encouragement he stammered out the story of his good fortune, the tale running straight enough to fan excitement into a blaze.  There was no disposition to doubt, for news of this sort is only too sure of credence.

When the speaker had finished, O’Neil inquired: 

“Are you an experienced quartz-miner?  Do you know ore when you see it?”

“Sure!  I worked in the Jumbo, at Goldfield, Nevada, up to last year.  So did Baker.”

“When did you go into the White River country?”

“August.”

“How did you go in?”

“We packed in.  When our grub ran out, we killed our horses and cached the meat for dog-feed.”

“Is there any other dog-feed there?”

“No, sir.”

“Any people?”

“Not a soul.  The country is open to the first comers.  It’s a fine-looking country, too:  we seen quartz indications everywhere.  I reckon this speaks for itself.”  Thorn significantly held up his ore samples.  “We’ve made our locations.  You fellows is welcome to the rest.  First come, first served.”

There was an eager scramble for the specimens on the part of those nearest the speaker.  After a moment Murray asked them: 

“Did you fellows ever see any rock like that?”

One of his workmen answered: 

“I have.”

“Where?”

“In the Jumbo, at Goldfield.  I ‘high-graded’ there in the early days.”

There was a laugh at this.  Thorn flushed angrily.  “Well,” he rejoined, “we’ve got the same formation over there in the White River.  It’s just like Goldfield.  It’ll be the same kind of a camp, too, when the news gets out.”

O’Neil broke in smoothly, to say: 

“Most of our fellows have no dogs.  It will take them three weeks to cover the trail.  They’ll have to spend three weeks in there, then three weeks more coming out—­over two months altogether.  They can’t haul enough grub to do them.”  He turned to his employees and said gravely:  “You’d better think it over, boys.  Those who have teams can make it but the rest of you will get left.  Do you think the chance is worth all that work and suffering?”