"We didn't know it was your gulch. This boy is George Stanton. He's my partner, too. My other partner's down at Denver. We've been over in the Gregory diggin's."
"An' are you prospecting alone? Dere is more of you?" demanded the German, suspiciously.
"No, we're alone," assured Terry.
"Well, well. Is dot so? Den you needn't be afraid. I would not harm goot boys. Nein, nein." Now apparently in fine humor, he waddled forward to shake hands.
"We're not afraid," replied Terry.
"I should say not," alleged George. "Your gun wasn't cocked, and we could have ducked. You'd have had to fight the two of us at once, besides the dog. That's a powerful dog. He's licked an Injun."
"Is dot so?" repeated the German, eying Shep. "I stick my one foot in his mouth an' kick him mit de odder. But no, no. Fighting is not goot. I only fight to protect my gulch. Come on down; come on down to where I lif, an' we haf supper."
"This is your dust, isn't it?" queried George, proffering the pan. "It's out of that dirt. Do you own all the gulch?"
"Ja; my gulch. But nefer mind. You keep what you find. I haf plenty, plenty. Come on down now an' I show you somet'ings. You odder boy wash your pan. Den we all go."
Terry delayed not in washing his panful while he had the permission. It yielded fully as much yellow as had George's! Whew! They had struck rich pay-dirt, at last, and—shucks! It belonged to somebody else. However——