The old-timer lifted his tufted eyebrows. “An’ you got through the winter with one gallon,” he said softly, wonderingly.
“Why, I only used it in the morning and again at noon. Just when I—but maybe I didn’t use it often enough. Still, the sled came along pretty well.”
The old-timer barked apologetically in his mittened hand. At last he understood. It had been so many years since he had heard of the old joke of greasing sled runners that he had forgotten. But this boy was so very much in earnest, it wouldn’t do to hurt his feelings. And besides, it might lead to serious trouble. This innocent youth had dragged this worthless stuff over the trail—pounds and pounds of it. Murder had been committed for less than a joke like that!
“The skinflint sold you too much, all right,” he said, as he reached down and thoughtfully “hefted” the can. “But you’ve got it here—I reckon you might as well forget it. Anyhow, you won’t have any more use for it. You’re all through sleddin’. An’ now I’d better be gettin’ along. If you want anything this summer, you’ll find me over on Penny Ante Crick. Number Five Above Discovery’s the name of my claim.”
Harris Benton was highly elated when he next saw the old-timer. Not only had he staked a claim on what he called Benton Gulch but he had actually discovered gold and he had found it in paying quantities. For a week he had panned the gravel on Benton Gulch, and he was now displaying his sample to the old-timer. The old man listened attentively to the boy’s story, but did not enthuse over the sample.
“You’ve come clean over here to Penny Ante Crick to show me this, an’ I’m right sorry to have to disappoint you.” In spite of the old man’s words, young Benton was grinning cheerfully. “It takes a whole lot to discourage a young rooster like you,” he resumed, “but I’ll soon show you why you’ve got to leave that gulch alone. I don’t doubt what you say. You got the gold here to prove it. But how’re you goin’ to work the ground? Answer me that.”
Harris Benton still grinned. “I know why you think I can’t work that ground,” he said. “It’s what you old-timers call a dry gulch. I know there won’t be drinking water there this summer. What you overlooked is this. By digging a ditch less than a quarter mile in length I can get one of the best sluice heads in this country. Right over that shoulder at the head of my gulch is where I——”
“I know where you mean, all right,” interrupted the old-timer. “But have you talked with Joe Murtry yet?”
“Haven’t even seen him. But why should I talk to him? What has he to do with it?”
“Ev’rything. Joe Murtry owns ev’ry drop of water in Caribou Crick. He recorded it last spring a year ago.”