At that they all started to their feet. From somewhere just out of their view had come the loud heehaw, heehaw of a donkey.
“What?” Florence sprang out the door. Then her lips parted in a smile, for there before her stood one more odd character from this strange new world: the oddest, she thought, of them all.
Tall, slim, white-haired, an old man sat astride a burro. And behind him came two other burros heavily laden with packs. From one pack protruded the handles of a pick and a shovel.
“A forty-niner,” Florence thought.
“A real old sourdough Alaskan prospector!” Bill exclaimed, wild with enthusiasm.
“Whoa! Hello!” the old man shouted in one breath. “People livin’ here! That’s bad for me. I’ve been camping here as I came and went for a long spell.”
“The latch-string is still on the outside,” Florence laughed a welcome. “We’ve got hot raised biscuits,” she encouraged. “Hot raised biscuits, sweet, home-churned butter and plenty of coffee.”
“Hot raised biscuits.” The man passed a hand before his eyes. “And sweet butter. Haven’t heard those words in twenty years. Came to Alaska during the rush in ’97. Just out of college then. Been prospecting for gold ever since. Found it twice. It’s all gone now. But there’s gold in them hills.” His face lighted as he looked away at the snowy peaks. “Gold,” he repeated softly. “Sure,” his voice changed, the light in his eyes faded. “Sure. Hot biscuits and sweet butter. Sure, I’ll stop and rest awhile.”
“Well, folks,” Mark stood looking away at his partly plowed field. “I’ve got to get back to work. Season’s short. Must get in our seed.”
“Bill,” he slapped the tall boy on the back, “you’ve got an acre or two that’s nearly clear. You get busy and root out the brush. Then I’ll plow it for you.”