“Wash that,” he said. “You’re apt to get a prospect.”
With artful passes Dextry settled it in the pan bottom and washed away the gravel, leaving a yellow, glittering pile which raised a yell from the men who had lingered curiously.
“He pans forty dollars to the boot-leg,” one shouted.
“How much do you run to the foot, Slapjack?”
“He’s a reg’lar free-milling ledge.”
“No, he ain’t—he’s too thin. He’s nothing but a stringer, but he’ll pay to work.”
The old miner grinned toothlessly.
“Gentlemen, there ain’t no better way to save fine gold than with undercurrents an’ blanket riffles. I’ll have to wash these garments of mine an’ clean up the soapsuds ’cause there’s a hundred dollars in gold-dust clingin’ to my person this minute.” He went dripping up the bank, while the men returned to their work singing.
After lunch Dextry saddled his bronco.
“I’m goin’ to town for a pair of gold-scales, but I’ll be back by supper, then we’ll clean up between shifts. She’d ought to give us a thousand ounces, the way that ground prospects.” He loped down the gulch, while his partner returned to the pit, the flashing shovel blades, and the rumbling undertone of the big workings that so fascinated him.