“Yes; we live up yonder near the top of the hill.”
“How long do you reckon it’ll take us to get to Cherry Creek?” pursued the ox-team driver.
“Two months if you keep going,” said Billy.
“’Twon’t take as long as that, stranger,” replied the man. “We can travel right smart.”
“They do say you can dig out the gold with a shovel,” quavered the woman. “We hear tell you can dig out a pound a day. Were you ever there?”
“No,” answered Billy. “But we’re going. Aren’t you a little early?”
“Wall, we reckoned we’d start ’arly, an’ make our pile ’fore the other folks got thar,” explained the driver. “Thar’s a tarnel lot o’ people gathered behind us, an’ those that come later won’t find ’nough grass for their critters. Gee-up, Buck! Spot! Get along with you.”
Creaking, the wagon resumed its way. The man with the hand-cart pushed in the wake. The mud was ankle deep, and Dave felt sorry for the whole outfit.
“Better stop on the hill and rest,” bade Billy. “Guess we can give you some coffee.”
“Nope, thank ye, stranger,” said the driver. “We’re goin’ on through.” And he swung his whip, urging his oxen.