"Goin' to sluice, are you?" The giant's close-set little eyes roved about inquisitively. "This your claim, is it?"
"Yes, sir. This and the next one."
"Where'd you get that lucky pan o' dirt?"
"From that hole."
The giant strode up, carelessly poked about in the hole with his boot-toe, filtered some of the dirt through his fingers.
"You're down to bed-rock already," he pronounced, returning. "I calkilate you may have struck a leetle pocket, but I don't count much on these shallow slopes. Some gold ketches, most of it's washed down. He your partner?" and he indicated the preacher.
"No, sir. My partner's down to the store."
"Older'n you?"
"Some."
"Waal," and the giant picked up his sack, "you'll have most of your work for nothin'. May strike an occasional pocket, an' may not. You've got one o' them pore locations. Mostly rock." With that he stumped on into the little draw down which flowed the side rivulet. Once he paused, to cast a glance behind at the stream and the waiting sluice; and then he disappeared around a shoulder up the draw.