"I’ve found that out," assented Leslie bitterly, "and yet I can’t blame Wilson. I foisted myself on him at Omaha–he didn’t get after me. And he has really been square with me. He simply made me believe in his claims as thoroughly as he does, and he believes in them yet, but I don’t. You see," Leslie explained, "he keeps expecting to run across a pocket of free gold, and that he says he’ll turn over to me so I can get back the money I put into the supplies. I’ve got to get that money back pretty soon," he added emphatically.
Ross looked at him commiseratingly. "I’m afraid you can’t."
For a moment Leslie’s lips worked miserably. He took no pains to conceal his emotion from Ross. Finally he burst out, "I must, Grant. I’ve simply got to have that money back." He held out his hands palms up. They were blistered and sore. "That doesn’t matter," he declared. "I’d work ’em to the bone if the work would bring the gold. And a month ago I’d never done an hour’s work in my life. I tell you," in a burst of irrepressible confidence, "everything looks different to me to-day from what it did five weeks ago. I wish–I wish I could go back those five weeks–why, I’d almost be willing to go to school––"
Approaching sounds stopped the confidence that Ross was so anxious to hear. The door opened unceremoniously, and the McKenzies entered, accompanied by Wilson. The latter was talking excitedly. With a nod at Ross he finished his speech while helping himself to a seat beside the stove.
"I tell you there’s every sign of free gold. Same kind of stun crops out there and in the same layers and at the same angle as when I was working up in Butte. My claims was right next door to a fellow’s named Harrison. One mornin’ he bust through a wall rock slam bang right onto two thousand dollars’ worth of the prettiest yellow ye ever see. And I tell ye I shouldn’t be a mite surprised if our next blast showed us a streak of yellow too."
Sandy laughed unconcernedly. "A streak of yeller in a chap and in a rock mean two different things, I notice. And I’ve also seen more of the yeller in fellers than in rocks," easily dropping on a box and lighting his pipe.
Young Jones, looking at his partner, brightened visibly, despite the knowledge he had recently acquired of Wilson’s optimism. There was about the man such a cock-sureness, such simple sincerity and abiding faith in his own statements that Ross felt that he could not rest content the following day without knowing the result of that next charge of dynamite.
Steele had told him about these "pockets" that occasionally are concealed in the heart of the veins or "leads" along which mining tunnels are driven. They are uncovered unexpectedly by a blast of dynamite. They consist of small quantities of quartz of such richness that it pays to transport the ore to the smelter. But every prospector dreams of uncovering a pocket of "free gold" ore, quartz through which the gold is scattered in visible particles or streaks and can be extracted in its pure state with the aid of a hammer and a knife blade.
"Come down to-morrow night," Ross said in a low tone across the table, "and report."
Leslie nodded, and Ross, going to his emergency chest, brought out a bottle of liquid and a box of salve. "Here," he said abruptly, "better take some care of those hands of yours if you don’t want blood poisoning to set in. Soak ’em well in hot water with a teaspoonful of this added"–he shoved the bottle of liquid across the table–"and then rub in this salve. And don’t work in the dirt without gloves till those sores are healed."