"Put money in that idea, and get at a range of mountains like the Sierra Nevada, which runs a dollar a ton in gold. It costs us two dollars to mine and mill, but Loco can do it for ninety cents. He can transmute the Sierra Nevada into gold—and we prospectors are down and out along with the buffaloes and the Indians. We're out of date, says Loco."
"Then he's a genius?"
"He's a fool. His fans get cut to powder. When I worked for him last winter, I offered—for a half interest—to make him fans which wouldn't get cut to pieces. I would have cased the fans in bott, which means black Diamonds, and made the fool a multi-billionaire. Instead of that, he sacked me. Pity, that. I'd have been half-owner of a corner in gold."
"What would you do?"
"Buy mother an orchard down home in Nova Scotia. Open up the plains for a nation—you see, I'm Canadian. Buy a fleet, and station it on the coast of China to meet the Yellow Peril—you see, I'm British, too. I'd buy me a horse like that Black Prince of yours, and"—he glanced ruefully at his long boots, which were dropping to pieces—"yes, and a new pair of boots—that is, if the cash held out."
We looked on trailing mist wreaths, combed by the torch-like pines at timber line. "The weather's going to change," said Long Shorty, then scrambled to his feet, for a man of six-foot five must have room when he wants to yawn. "Come," said he, "help me to point some drills."
That man made me thoughtful.
No climb is too high for an ass with a load of gold—Rams, for example. And here he was at the top, ready to my hand, so tame I could stroke his long seductive ears.
Now an ass-load of gold was merely wasted on Loco, and yet it might be useful to Long Shorty and Bobbie Broach. They had gone to work in their tunnel, and left me at the forge to sharpen drills. Close by among the spired pines was their log cabin, with its mud chimney, while an extension of the roof made a porch in front. Beyond that, a cutting in the hillside gave entry to the tunnel, whose waste rock made a terrace heaped with silvery ore a-glitter in the sunshine. The place was all so beautiful, so dignified, so aching poor. These men were in rags, and living on half rations, yet made a stranger welcome to all they had. Poor Bobbie Broach had been born in a muddle and stayed there, a woman had muddled Shorty's life for him, but both of them lived straight in a confusing world. I wanted to be their friend.
Rams, of his own accord, came out for a walk, expecting as rich men will to patronize the poor, and put them through their paces. He thought I had gone back to camp, did not expect to see me.