“That leaves us only four men to work the cradles,” I objected. “Four men out of nine working.”
“Well, thar won’t be no men out of nine a-workin’ if you don’t watch out,” predicted Bagsby. “You-all forgit this is a self-supportin’ community. We got to work for our living, as well as for gold.”
“The hunters might go out less,” suggested McNally.
“The miners might eat less, then,” replied Bagsby grimly. “This ain’t what you’d call the best sort of a game country.”
We came to it, of course, though with much grumbling. It seemed an almost excuseless waste of good energy; a heavy price in economic efficiency to pay for insurance against what seemed a very remote peril. But we did not know, and our uncertainty gave way.
“But hang it!” cried Johnny, “here’s more gold than a hundred men could begin to handle, and we’re wasting more than half our resources.”
“It do seem so,” agreed Yank with his accustomed slow philosophy. “But we can put in longer hours because we rest oftener.”
A week passed, and we had almost forgotten our chance visitors. One day the two Spaniards, Buck Barry and I were at the cradle; Bagsby, Yank, and McNally were the hunters for the day. Johnny and Missouri Jones kept camp.
We had had a most successful morning, and were just stacking our tools preparatory to returning to camp for 226 dinner. Buck Barry was standing near some small sage bushes at the upper end of the diggings. He was just in the act of lighting a freshly filled pipe, when he stopped as though petrified, the burning match suspended above the bowl of his pipe. Then he turned quickly toward the sage brush; and as he did so a bow twanged and an arrow sang past his head so close as actually to draw blood from the lobe of his ear. With a roar of anger Buck Barry raised his pickaxe and charged into the bush. We saw a figure rise from the ground, dash away, stumble flat. Before the man could get up again Buck Barry was upon him, and the pickaxe descended. At the same instant we heard a series of whoops and two shots in rapid succession from the direction of camp. Buck Barry came bounding out of the sage brush, and seized his rifle from under the bush where we had kept them.
“Come on!” he panted. “Let’s get out of this!”