So we moved on a few hundred feet, picked another unoccupied patch, and resumed our efforts. No greater success rewarded us here.
“I believe maybe we ought to go deeper,” surmised Yank.
“Some of these fellows are taking their dirt right off top of the ground,” objected Johnny.
However, we unlimbered the pickaxe and went deeper; to the extent of two feet or more. It was good hard work, especially as we were all soft for it. The sun poured down on our backs with burning intensity; our hands blistered; and the round rocks and half-cemented rubble that made the bar were not the easiest things in the world to remove. However, we kept at it. Yank and I, having in times past been more or less accustomed to this sort of thing, got off much easier than did poor Johnny. About two feet down we came to a mixed coarse sand and stones, a little finer than the top dirt. This seemed to us promising, so we resumed our washing operations. They bore the same results as had the first; which was just the whole of nothing.
“We’ve got to hit it somewhere,” said Johnny between his teeth. “Let’s try another place.”
We scrambled rather wearily, but with a dogged determination, out of our shallow hole. Our blue-eyed, long-bearded friend was sitting on a convenient boulder near at hand, his pipe between his teeth, watching our operations.
“Got any tobacco, boys?” he inquired genially. “Smoked my last until to-night, unless you’ll lend.”
160Yank produced a plug, from which the stranger shaved some parings.
“Struck the dirt?” he inquired. “No, I see you haven’t.” He stretched himself and arose. “You aren’t washing this stuff!” he cried in amazement, as his eye took in fully what we were about.
Then we learned what we might have known before–but how should we?–that the gold was not to be found in any and every sort of loose earth that might happen to be lying about, but only in either a sort of blue clay or a pulverized granite. Sometimes this “pay dirt” would be found atop the ground. Again, the miner had to dig for it.