McNally, who had said and done nothing, suddenly uttered a resounding whoop and stood on his hands. Missouri Jones, taking aim, spat carefully into the centre of the fire, missing the dishpan by a calculated and accurate inch.
“The country is just lousy with gold,” he pronounced.
Then we blew up. We hugged each other, we pounded each other’s backs, we emulated McNally’s wild Irish whoops, finally we joined hands and danced around and around the remains of the fire, kicking up our heels absurdly. Bagsby, a leathery grin on his face, stood off one side. He still held his long-barrelled rifle, which he presented at whoever neared him.
“I tell you, look out!” he kept saying over and over. “I’m shootin’ lunatics to-day; and apparently there’s plenty game to choose from.”
216CHAPTER XXIII
THE CAMP ON THE PORCUPINE
We should all have liked to start right in digging, but Bagsby strenuously opposed this.
“You-all have a rich diggings yere,” said he; “and you want to stay a while and git the most there is out of them. And if you’re going to do that, you’ve got to get a good ready. You’ve got make a decent camp, and a stockade for the hosses at night; and if you want yore grub to last you more than a month there’s got to be some reg’lar hunting and fishing done.”
“That’ll take a week!” cried Johnny impatiently.
“Or more,” agreed Bagsby with entire complacence. “You can bull at it and go to t’aring up the scenery if you want to; but you won’t last long.”