"No fight," decided George, as if disappointed. "It's going to be just a grab-all. Get your tools if you want your pound a day."
"That's what we came for," reminded Terry, as they shouldered pick and spade apiece. "We won't wait for any fight. Come on; leave the stuff here."
"Somebody'll steal your shot-gun."
"Don't think so. I can't carry that, too! But I can put it in one of those Tarryall tents."
"I'll wear my revolver. I don't leave that," pronounced George, wagging his head.
"Sure. You ought to travel well heeled, in these parts, sonny." One of the Tarryall men had strolled over. "If you don't, that Dutchman will take your scalp."
"What Dutchman?" demanded Terry.
"He's holed up in a gulch about a mile yonder. He's like the rest of us original discoverers—what he has he's bound to keep. We all give him a clear field, and I'd advise you to do the same. It's an unhealthy neighborhood hereabouts for claim jumpers. You're two plucky lads. Any more in your party?"
"No, sir. We're our own outfit," informed Terry. "But we've got another partner, and some prospects, back in the Gregory diggin's."
"Do you know where we can dig a pound a day here? That man who brought us in said you were digging a pound a day," challenged George.