"Winter?" he mumbled perplexed. "It's sure settin' in like it meant business. But I'm plannin' to start a tunnel—got a rich vein I want to uncover—think come spring I'll have her where somebody'll want to build a mill an'——"
"But you told me you were going to Reno," I recalled.
"Yep; I am, come spring," he earnestly assured me.
"Do you know the date?" I shot at him.
He looked at me sheepishly.
"No-o-o, don't reckon I do," he admitted, scratching his head and eying me quizzically.
I waited.
"Must be about Christmas, ain't it?" he guessed at length.
It was the eighth of May!
Old Mac was a typical prospector. They are all queer, picturesque characters, living in a world of golden dreams, oblivious to everything but the hole they are digging, the gold they are sure to find. They have a fanatical, unshakable, perennial faith in every prospect hole they open, no matter how many have been false leads. They are incorrigible optimists, the world's champion hopers. Unkempt, unhurried, dreaming, confiding, trustful, superstitious, they wander the length of the Rockies, seeking the materialization of their golden visions. They are seekers, far more concerned with finding gold than with digging it out. Like hunting dogs, their interest ceases with the capture of their quarry.