"I guess I missed him clean," confessed Billy, ruefully. "I was in too big a hurry."
"It's hard shooting up hill; and he was running, too," sympathized Charley, "Let's see where the bullets hit."
That would be some satisfaction; so they searched more. Presently Billy yelped:
"Here's where one hit. It knocked a big chunk out of the rock. Funny looking rock." And then he exclaimed: "Come over, Charley. Quick! The rock's got a lot of yellow in it!"
"What color rock?" demanded Charley.
"Whitish."
"Let's see."
Billy pointed, and he also handed up the piece that the bullet had knocked loose. Yes, the fresh side of the piece was white and glistening—and the whiteness was mottled with dull yellow. The scar in the rocky ridge also was white and yellow mottled.
"Is it gold, Charley?" gasped Billy, anxiously.
"I don't know, for sure," said Charley, trying not to be foolish. "But I think this is quartz, all right enough; and if that yellow's soft enough to be scraped with a knife blade it's liable to be gold." He drew out his knife from his belt and scraped at the yellow. Where the yellow was thickest it could—yes, it could be scraped in tiny shavings. Billy was peering close; and he was breathing so fast that, Charley afterward declared, he could be heard half a mile. But no matter now.