There was not much to see, but it was picturesque. In their lack of funds the partners had constructed the simplest known device for collecting the gold from the sand. They had built a line of sluices, or troughs of considerable length, propped on stilts, or supports about knee high, along the old bed of the canyon. The sluices were mere square flumes, set with a fairly rapid grade.
Across the bottom of all this flume, at every yard or less of its length, small wooden cleats had been nailed, to form the "riffles." Into the hoses the water from the creek was turned, at the top. The men then shoveled the sand in the running stream and away it went, sluicing along the water-chute, its particles rattling down the wooden stairway noisily. The gold was expected to settled behind the riffles, owing to its weight.
All the flume-way dripped from leakages. The sun beat down upon the place unshaded. Water escaped into all the pits the men were digging as they worked, so that they slopped around in mud above their ankles. Dave wore rubber boots and was apparently protected. As a matter of fact the boots promptly filled with water. Napoleon and Gettysburg made no effort to remain dry shod, but puddled all day with soused footgear.
Van rode off to the "reservation town," a mile below the hill, to bargain for a tent reported there for sale. Sleeping quarters here on the claim were far too crowded. Until lumber for a cabin could be purchased they must make what shifts they might.
It had taken but the briefest time for the miners to go at their work. Beth stood near, watching the process with the keenest interest. It seemed to her a back-breaking, strenuous labor. These sturdy old fellows, grown gray and stooped with toil—grown also expectant of hardship, ill-luck, and privations—were pathetic figures, despite their ways of cheer.
That Van had attached them to himself in a largeness of heart by no means warranted by their worth was a conviction at which anyone must promptly arrive. They were lovable old scamps, faithful, honest, and loyal to the man they loved—but that was all that could be stated. Perhaps it was enough. As partners with whom to share both life and fortune they might have seemed impossible to many discerning men.
Beth sat down on a rock, near Gettysburg. Someway she, too, liked the three old chaps of whom work had made three trademarks. Old Gettysburg began to sing. The words of his song, halted by grunts as he shoveled, were, to say the least, unexpected:
The frog he swore he'd have a ride,
(Shovel)
With a rinktum bolly kimo;
Sword and pistols by his side,
(Shovel)
With a rinktum bolly kimo.
For lunch he packed a beetle bug,
(Shovel)
With a rinktum bolly kimo;
Tucked inside his tummy snug,
(Shovel)
With a rinktum bolly kimo.
Kimo, karo, pito, garo,
Kimo, bolly mitty kimo.
(Shovel)
Shing-shang hammyriddle, allibony, ringtang,
Folderolli bolly mitty kimo.
(Three shovelings and some meditation)
The frog he rode a slimy eel,
(Shovel)
With a rinktum bolly kimo.
The sun made his complexion peel,
(Shovel)
With a rinktum bolly kimo.
The frog's legs went to join a fry,
(Shovel)
With a rinktum bolly kimo.
The eel became a juicy pie,
(Shovel)
With a rinktum bolly kimo.