Terry was deep down in Pat's pit and toiling lustily, and was already mud and dirt from crown to soles, when from above somebody hailed him. George Stanton, of course! Not only George, but Virgie, too. They were peering in, George afoot and Virgie from the back of the Indian pony that last year had been captured from Thunder Horse, the mean Kiowa.
George wore a natty buckskin suit, and his revolver, of make-believe wooden hammer; and with a blanket roll on his back, and a new pick and spade on his shoulder, and a new gold-pan slung at his side, he evidently was all prepared for business. Virgie wore a sunbonnet and a cleanish gingham dress. They both looked so spic and span that Terry realized how different he looked, himself. But with an instant whoop of welcome he clambered out to shake hands.
"Hello, George! Hello, Virgie! Cracky, I'm glad to see you! When did you get in? Where are the folks?"
"Down in Denver," answered George. "Virgie and I came up with some people we met on the trail. Is this your mine? Did you find one for me, too?"
"You're awful dirty," accused Virgie, wiping her hand on her dress.
"I reckon I am, Virgie," agreed Terry. "So'd you and George be, if you weren't tenderfeet. How'd you know where to find us? Did you get our letters?"
"Yes; got the one you wrote from Denver—got it at Manhattan, just as we were starting. We came through in twenty-one days. Your dad and mine have a cracking good team apiece. And we got another you wrote to Denver from these diggin's. Found it waiting for us. Is this your mine? Where's Harry? Did you discover one for me? Where's the gold? We hear you've struck it rich! The folks sent us up to see. Do you want them, too?"
"Who told you we'd struck it rich?" demanded Terry.
"A sick boy down at Denver. He heard us asking for our mail, and asked if your father was any kin of yours. He says he knows your mine; it's the Golden Prize, and it's a bonanza; regular humdinger! So I was looking for it, and I saw the top of your hat, and I told Virgie: 'There's Terry Richards' hat, and I bet he's under it!' Is this the mine? Is that other man working for you? Where's Harry? Shall I get down in and dig, too? I'm not afraid of dirt."
"Naw, this isn't the Golden Prize," confessed Terry, bluffly. "It's another mine—belongs to Pat Casey. I'm helping him. But I'll quit and take you over to the cabin. 'Tisn't far. Wait till I tell Pat."