The boy went down to the lower camp from his lonely tent, that was pitched on one of the terraces near the head of the Pilgrim’s Rest Valley, for the purpose of buying his meagre supplies for the following week, for it was Saturday afternoon. Night was falling when he started homeward, and it was dark when he reached Slater’s Claim and the Big Rock. Just there he stumbled over a man who was lying, sleeping the sleep of intoxication, across the path.
“The Boy”—he was known from one end of the creek to the other by that designation—struck a match and examined the man’s face. He recognised it at once as being that of Dan the Reefer, a gigantic yellow-bearded Californian—the camp’s most celebrated prospector. Next to the sleeper lay a new blanket tied up in a neat bundle.
A cold wind was searching down from the frost-dusted peaks which stood, lofty and clean-cut, against the early winter’s sky; so the boy untied the bundle, and, after placing the head of the man in a comfortable position, spread the blanket over him and tucked it in. In doing this his hand touched a leather pouch. After considering the risk he was running, the boy opened the pouch and found that it contained about ten ounces of gold in a chamois leather bag. He transferred the bag to his pocket and went home.
Next morning the boy went down to the Reefer’s tent and handed over what he had taken charge of. The Reefer was profanely thankful.
“I’ll do you a good turn for this,” said he, ”— me if I don’t.”
“Take me out prospecting with you,” said the boy at a venture.
“Can you hold a rifle straight?”
“Yes; but I haven’t got one.”
“Oh, that’s all right; I have. You’ll kill meat and I’ll strike a reef that’ll make our fortunes.”
Here was a piece of luck; the very thing he had longed for hopelessly was thrust upon him. To go prospecting with the Reefer was an honour sought by many.