Nick pointed in the direction of the river bluffs; and when Landis had reached the mesa the Paiute—with pick and shovel—was already there.
“The ol’ man—my father—asked um me where I go. I no tell um. He ask what for I take pick—take um shovel—what I do. I no say nothin’.”
“That’s right, Nick! Don’t tell anybody. By an’ by, when I get the business all fixed, then we’ll talk. Savvy?”
And again Nick “savvied.”
All about them was the black rock from which Nick had got the sample. Not much of it, but enough to demonstrate the value of what it indicated. It was undoubtedly asphaltum; the indication for oil was good—more than good. Landis was interested. The Paiute was moving off through the stunted greasewood to the bluffs near the river edge, and Landis followed.
The face of the bluffs—eroded and uneven—rose high above the river level; leaving but a narrow footway between their base and the stream, here at this point. Across by the other bank, was a growth of rabbit-wood and sage. A twisted, leafless buck-bush stood lonely and alone at the rim of a dry slough. The carcass of a dead horse—victim of some horse-hide hunter—furnished a gruesome feast for a half dozen magpies that fluttered chattering away as the two figures appeared on the top of the bluffs; and a coyote that had been the magpies’ companion, slipped away into the thicket of rabbit-wood. The river was deep here, and dirty with the debris brought down by its rising waters. Froth, and broken twigs, and sticks swirled around in the eddies. To Landis, there was something unspeakably depressing about the place, though he was well used to the country in all its phases. Its very stillness seemed today to weigh on him.
The two men began the descent; the Indian slipping quickly down the face of the bluffs, and Landis clambering after.
There—at the foot—in a gully so narrow it would escape any but the keenest eye, a tiny, slow-moving, dark thread of a stream oozed from beneath the bluffs of clay, and following the bottom of the narrow cut that ran at right angles to the river—slipped down into the roily waters that bore it away. Landis squatted down by it for closer inspection. He rubbed it between his fingers. He smelt of it. Yes, it was oil!
“All right, Nick! You’ll get your hundred dollars!”
Nick grinned delightedly; but the face of Landis—from the high cheek bones down to the square set jaws that were burned as red as the skin of an Indian is supposed to be—was a mask of immobility. This find meant many thousands of dollars to him, but he only said: