“Say,” he cried, “ther’ ain’t no use fer you to get around further. You ken jest light back to the store, an’ see to them kids. Don’t you never let ’em out o’ your sight till Wednesday come. Then hit out fer James’ ranch.”
When Wild Bill eventually reached the claim, he found Sandy sitting on an upturned bucket amidst the most deplorable surroundings in which a gold prospector in quest of the precious metal could ever hope to find himself.
The creek bank was some two hundred yards away, with a pronounced rising ground between him and it. Behind him was a great cut-faced rock of ironstone that certainly looked auriferous. The base of it lay in a definite hollow, reed-grown and oozy. Beyond him, to the right, following the river bank, the ground declined gradually towards a black-looking, turgid and overgrown swamp. While, from the direction in which the gambler approached, a low, dense, thorny bush grew, made up of branches almost skeleton in their lack of leaves. It was a forlorn and uninviting spot, calculated to dishearten anybody with a heart less big and an enthusiasm less vital than Scipio’s.
Bill stood for a moment surveying the scene before Sandy realized his presence. And that first glance set him snorting contemptuously.
“Well, say––” he began. But words failed him, and he hurried across to his “hired” man.
Sandy jumped up as he came near, and before the other could stop him had poured out his opinion of things in general, and that claim in particular, in a few well-chosen and effective words.
“Say, Zip orter sure be shot or hanged,” he cried angrily, “an’ this doggone claim o’ mud needs to be boosted through a dogasted volcany an’ blowed out the other side o’ no sort o’ place at all. Ther’ sure ain’t nuthin’ worse in the world than the foolishness of a tow-headed fool.”
But Bill ignored the outburst.
“How much gold you found?” he inquired coldly.
Sandy’s indignant eyes blazed.