[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
precipitated, then dropped its head to the grass and began contentedly to
graze. A second horse scrambled into view, slipping once on the mossy rocks
and regaining equilibrium when its hoofs sank into the yielding surface of the
meadow. It was riderless, though on its back was a high-horned Mexican saddle,
scarred and discolored by long usage.
The man brought up the rear. He threw off pack and saddle, with an eye to
camp location, and gave the animals their freedom to graze. He unpacked his
food and got out frying-pan and coffee-pot. He gathered an armful of dry wood,
and with a few stones made a place for his fire.
"My!" he said, "but I've got an appetite. I could scoff iron-filings an'
horseshoe nails an' thank you kindly, ma'am, for a second helpin'."
He straightened up, and, while he reached for matches in the pocket of his
overalls, his eyes travelled across the pool to the side-hill. His fingers had
clutched the match-box, but they relaxed their hold and the hand came out
empty. The man wavered perceptibly. He looked at his preparations for cooking
and he looked at the hill.
"Guess I'll take another whack at her," he concluded, starting to cross the
stream.
"They ain't no sense in it, I know," he mumbled apologetically. "But keepin'
grub back an hour ain't goin' to hurt none, I reckon."
A few feet back from his first line of test-pans he started a second line.
The sun dropped down the western sky, the shadows lengthened, but the man
worked on. He began a third line of test-pans. He was cross-cutting the
hillside, line by line, as he ascended. The centre of each line produced the
richest pans, while the ends came where no colors showed in the pan. And as he
ascended the hillside the lines grew perceptibly shorter. The regularity with
which their length diminished served to indicate that somewhere up the slope
the last line would be so short as to have scarcely length at all, and that
beyond could come only a point. The design was growing into an inverted "V."
The converging sides of this "V" marked the boundaries of the gold-bearing
dirt.
The apex of the "V" was evidently the man's goal. Often he ran his eye along
the converging sides and on up the hill, trying to divine the apex, the point
where the gold-bearing dirt must cease. Here resided "Mr. Pocket" for so the
man familiarly addressed the imaginary point above him on the slope, crying
out:
"Come down out o' that, Mr. Pocket! Be right smart an' agreeable, an' come
down!"
Page 49
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"All right," he would add later, in a voice resigned to determination. "All
right, Mr. Pocket. It's plain to me I got to come right up an' snatch you out
bald-headed. An' I'll do it! I'll do it!" he would threaten still later.
Each pan he carried down to the water to wash, and as he went higher up the
hill the pans grew richer, until he began to save the gold in an empty
baking-powder can which he carried carelessly in his hip-pocket. So engrossed
was he in his toil that he did not notice the long twilight of oncoming night.
It was not until he tried vainly to see the gold colors in the bottom of the
pan that he realized the passage of time. He straightened up abruptly. An
expression of whimsical wonderment and awe overspread his face as he drawled:
"Gosh darn my buttons! if I didn't plumb forget dinner!"
He stumbled across the stream in the darkness and lighted his long-delayed
fire. Flapjacks and bacon and warmed-over beans constituted his supper. Then
he smoked a pipe by the smouldering coals, listening to the night noises and
watching the moonlight stream through the canyon. After that he unrolled his
bed, took off his heavy shoes, and pulled the blankets up to his chin. His
face showed white in the moonlight, like the face of a corpse. But it was a
corpse that knew its resurrection, for the man rose suddenly on one elbow and
gazed across at his hillside.
"Good night, Mr. Pocket," he called sleepily. "Good night."
He slept through the early gray of morning until the direct rays of the sun
smote his closed eyelids, when he awoke with a start and looked about him
until he had established the continuity of his existence and identified his
present self with the days previously lived.
To dress, he had merely to buckle on his shoes. He glanced at his fireplace
and at his hillside, wavered, but fought down the temptation and started the
fire.
"Keep yer shirt on, Bill; keep yer shirt on," he admonished himself. "What's
the good of rushin'? No use in gettin' all het up an' sweaty. Mr. Pocket'll
wait for you. He ain't a-runnin' away before you can get yer breakfast. Now,
what you want, Bill, is something fresh in yer bill o' fare. So it's up to you
to go an' get it."
He cut a short pole at the water's edge and drew from one of his pockets a
bit of line and a draggled fly that had once been a royal coachman.
"Mebbe they'll bite in the early morning," he muttered, as he made his first
cast into the pool. And a moment later he was gleefully crying: "What'd I tell
you, eh? What'd I tell you?"
He had no reel, nor any inclination to waste time, and by main strength, and
swiftly, he drew out of the water a flashing ten-inch trout. Three more,
caught in rapid succession, furnished his breakfast. When he came to the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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precipitated, then dropped its head to the grass and began contentedly to
graze. A second horse scrambled into view, slipping once on the mossy rocks
and regaining equilibrium when its hoofs sank into the yielding surface of the
meadow. It was riderless, though on its back was a high-horned Mexican saddle,
scarred and discolored by long usage.
The man brought up the rear. He threw off pack and saddle, with an eye to
camp location, and gave the animals their freedom to graze. He unpacked his
food and got out frying-pan and coffee-pot. He gathered an armful of dry wood,
and with a few stones made a place for his fire.
"My!" he said, "but I've got an appetite. I could scoff iron-filings an'
horseshoe nails an' thank you kindly, ma'am, for a second helpin'."
He straightened up, and, while he reached for matches in the pocket of his
overalls, his eyes travelled across the pool to the side-hill. His fingers had
clutched the match-box, but they relaxed their hold and the hand came out
empty. The man wavered perceptibly. He looked at his preparations for cooking
and he looked at the hill.
"Guess I'll take another whack at her," he concluded, starting to cross the
stream.
"They ain't no sense in it, I know," he mumbled apologetically. "But keepin'
grub back an hour ain't goin' to hurt none, I reckon."
A few feet back from his first line of test-pans he started a second line.
The sun dropped down the western sky, the shadows lengthened, but the man
worked on. He began a third line of test-pans. He was cross-cutting the
hillside, line by line, as he ascended. The centre of each line produced the
richest pans, while the ends came where no colors showed in the pan. And as he
ascended the hillside the lines grew perceptibly shorter. The regularity with
which their length diminished served to indicate that somewhere up the slope
the last line would be so short as to have scarcely length at all, and that
beyond could come only a point. The design was growing into an inverted "V."
The converging sides of this "V" marked the boundaries of the gold-bearing
dirt.
The apex of the "V" was evidently the man's goal. Often he ran his eye along
the converging sides and on up the hill, trying to divine the apex, the point
where the gold-bearing dirt must cease. Here resided "Mr. Pocket" for so the
man familiarly addressed the imaginary point above him on the slope, crying
out:
"Come down out o' that, Mr. Pocket! Be right smart an' agreeable, an' come
down!"
Page 49
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"All right," he would add later, in a voice resigned to determination. "All
right, Mr. Pocket. It's plain to me I got to come right up an' snatch you out
bald-headed. An' I'll do it! I'll do it!" he would threaten still later.
Each pan he carried down to the water to wash, and as he went higher up the
hill the pans grew richer, until he began to save the gold in an empty
baking-powder can which he carried carelessly in his hip-pocket. So engrossed
was he in his toil that he did not notice the long twilight of oncoming night.
It was not until he tried vainly to see the gold colors in the bottom of the
pan that he realized the passage of time. He straightened up abruptly. An
expression of whimsical wonderment and awe overspread his face as he drawled:
"Gosh darn my buttons! if I didn't plumb forget dinner!"
He stumbled across the stream in the darkness and lighted his long-delayed
fire. Flapjacks and bacon and warmed-over beans constituted his supper. Then
he smoked a pipe by the smouldering coals, listening to the night noises and
watching the moonlight stream through the canyon. After that he unrolled his
bed, took off his heavy shoes, and pulled the blankets up to his chin. His
face showed white in the moonlight, like the face of a corpse. But it was a
corpse that knew its resurrection, for the man rose suddenly on one elbow and
gazed across at his hillside.
"Good night, Mr. Pocket," he called sleepily. "Good night."
He slept through the early gray of morning until the direct rays of the sun
smote his closed eyelids, when he awoke with a start and looked about him
until he had established the continuity of his existence and identified his
present self with the days previously lived.
To dress, he had merely to buckle on his shoes. He glanced at his fireplace
and at his hillside, wavered, but fought down the temptation and started the
fire.
"Keep yer shirt on, Bill; keep yer shirt on," he admonished himself. "What's
the good of rushin'? No use in gettin' all het up an' sweaty. Mr. Pocket'll
wait for you. He ain't a-runnin' away before you can get yer breakfast. Now,
what you want, Bill, is something fresh in yer bill o' fare. So it's up to you
to go an' get it."
He cut a short pole at the water's edge and drew from one of his pockets a
bit of line and a draggled fly that had once been a royal coachman.
"Mebbe they'll bite in the early morning," he muttered, as he made his first
cast into the pool. And a moment later he was gleefully crying: "What'd I tell
you, eh? What'd I tell you?"
He had no reel, nor any inclination to waste time, and by main strength, and
swiftly, he drew out of the water a flashing ten-inch trout. Three more,
caught in rapid succession, furnished his breakfast. When he came to the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]