"Look there!" he weeps, showin' me a letter.
I was the last to come in; so I kept that letter—here she is. I'll read her.
Dear Dutchy:—I suppose you thought I'd flew the coop, but I haven't and this is to prove it. Pack up your outfit and hit the trail. I've made the biggest free gold strike you ever see. I'm sending you specimens. There's tons just like it, tons and tons. I got all the claims I can hold myself; but there's heaps more. I've writ to Johnny and Ed at Denver to come on. Don't give this away. Make tracks. Come in to Buck Canon in the Whetstones and oblige.
Yours truly,
Henry Smith
Somebody showed me a handful of white rock with yeller streaks in it. His eyes was bulgin' until you could have hung your hat on them. That O'Toole party was walkin' around, wettin' his lips with his tongue and swearin' soft.
"God bless the Irish and let the Dutch rustle!" says he. "And the fool had to get drunk and give it away!"
The excitement was just started, but it didn't last long. The crowd got the same notion at the same time, and it just melted. Me and Dutchy was left alone.
I went home. Pretty soon a fellow named Jimmy Tack come around a little out of breath.
"Say, you know that buckskin you bought off'n me?" says he, "I want to buy him back."
"Oh, you do," says I.