"Now," and Ham turned questioningly to the others. "I wonder if 'twouldn't be a good thing tew take Pedro 'long? He could help a lot 'bout hoss-packin' an' cookin' an' things, an' could dew all th' dirty heavy work for th' Leetle Woman."
"Reckon you're right, Ham," declared Mr. Conroyal. "Shall we take the Mexican on his own terms?" and he glanced inquiringly around.
"Yes, and a good bargain I call it," assented Mr. Randolph. "Pedro couldn't have staid as long as he did with Coleman, if he hadn't been a pretty decent sort of a Mexican; and he can help a lot about camp."
And thus it came about that Pedro, the Mexican, entered the service of our friends, without a thought of suspicion that he might be other than what he seemed coming into the head of one of them. If they had not seen him so often working about Coleman's store and felt sure that he was only an ignorant Mexican menial, they probably would have been a little more cautious about taking him with them on such a venture as they were about to undertake.
Mrs. Dickson was given one of the horses to ride, although she protested that she was just as able to walk as anybody; but the other five horses were all loaded with the packs containing the supplies for the journey and the mining tools, the men, of course, all walking. The five pack-horses were placed in charge of Pedro and brought up the rear of the little column of men that now marched slowly over the hill that flanked Hangtown and off toward the unknown wilderness of mountains and forests to the northeast, Ham and Dickson and Mr. Conroyal in the lead.
For the first two or three days' march, or until they had passed beyond the region where the miners were at work, their way would be plain. They had only to follow the trail of the miners to Humbug Canyon, the last known place marked down on the skin map. But from Humbug Canyon on there would be no trail to follow and they would be obliged to trust to the guidance of Mr. Dickson and the skin map to bring them into Lot's Canyon. After that they would have to depend entirely on the map and their own skill to discover the hidden opening into Crooked Arm Gulch.
Naturally Thure and Bud were in high spirits, now that they were actually on their way to the marvelous Cave of Gold; and, boylike, they allowed no thoughts of the threatening perils from Ugger and Quinley and their band of cut-throats to trouble their minds or to distract their attention from the wonderful scenes constantly unfolding before them, as they advanced along the trail leading to Humbug Canyon, where something interesting or beautiful or both met their eyes each moment, no matter in what direction they looked. Now it was some wonderful formation of nature—great masses of rocks towering thousands of feet above their heads, picturesque little mountain-surrounded valleys, deep canyons and gulches and ravines and chasms, beautiful cascades of water plunging over precipitous cliffs to fall in a stream of sparkling jewels on the rocks at their base, or great forests of columnlike trees, or winding, murmuring, plunging, seething, turbulent little streams of water rushing furiously toward some far-off valley, and like marvels and beauties of nature. Again, in entering some little valley or ravine, they would come suddenly upon a picturesque little company of miners hard at work with picks and shovels and pans and cradles, searching for the elusive yellow grains of gold. Indeed, during that first afternoon, they found the miners everywhere, in the valleys, in the gulches and the ravines, along the streams, wherever there seemed the least prospect of finding gold, there these wild knights of the pick and the shovel were sure to be found; and, as they passed, the latest mining news would be shouted back and forth, enlivened with rude sallies of wit and merry well-wishes.
Sometimes they would pause for a few minutes to talk with the miners and to watch them at their work; and, on one of these occasions, Thure and Bud saw, for the first time, a couple of miners at work with a cradle, as this queer machine used to separate the gold from the dirt is called.
"I don't wonder it is called a cradle," Thure exclaimed, the moment he caught sight of the odd-looking contrivance. "Why, if it wasn't for that hopper on the upper end and the man shoveling dirt and pouring water into it, one would surely think that fellow was rocking his baby to sleep in its cradle. Can't we wait here a little while and watch them work it?" and Thure turned to his father. "The horses need a rest anyway."
"Going to clean up soon?" Mr. Conroyal called to the men.