When she arrived at the scene of the diggings the young prospector was nowhere to be seen.
“He’s here somewhere,” she told old Dannie, the dog leader, as she turned him about and tied him to the sled.
Having passed a mound of dark earth, she approached a crude windlass when a voice coming apparently from the very earth called:
“Is that you?”
“Where are you?” she called back.
“Where a miner should be. In the mud. Come to the windlass and look down.”
She obeyed. He was, as he explained, “drifting” along the old bed of the river, cutting a passage toward the rocks that had formed the falls.
“Give me a hand!” he exclaimed. “Twist the windlass. Now! Up she goes! Dump that anywhere, and lower the bucket.”
The excitement of the hour being still upon him, it did not occur to him that the task he had set for her was little fitted to her slight form. As for the girl, catching his enthusiasm, she toiled on for an hour without apparent effort. Again and again the bucket rose; again and again her aching muscles responded to the call.
“It’s gold,” she told herself. “It must be! This time we must win!”