"That's right. We're rich. You can try panning again, this afternoon, and I'll go down to the grocery and lay in provisions and any other stuff we'll need, and then we can set up the sluice and pile up the gold. Get to have everything running before Father Richards and that George Stanton come in."
"We can buy a claim for them, too," proposed Terry. "Or find one that's been left."
"No crows," corrected Harry. "Turkeys only."
Terry went at his panning with enthusiasm, bound to make a showing. Panning was slow, but it was rather exciting because there always was liable to be something yellow right under your eye, if you looked close enough. Panning was a one-man job; you did it all yourself.
The preacher strolled over to watch.
"How's the dirt paying now?" he queried.
"Pretty good. I've found some more," truthfully answered Terry. "About a dollar's worth, I guess."
"A pinch, eh? How'd you like to take over my claim?"
"Haven't any money yet. I mean, we won't have money till we get the sluice to going."
"I'll tell you what I'll do," proffered the preacher. "Just to make the transaction binding, I'll sell you the claim for your next pan. Preaching is my business, not mining, you see. If you buy my claim, then nobody can accuse you of jumping it."