"'Tain't right ter rile the lads," protested Woodle, earnestly. "Quit it, Tom Smull."
"I reckon it ain't you as is runnin' me tongue," retorted Smull. "But fur me an' Griffin, mebbe we uns wouldn't never hev made this strike o' pay dirt."
A strike of pay dirt!
Then Wanatoma's gold mine was a reality—an actual, tangible thing. Bob Somers' eyes ran rapidly over the mountain slope on the opposite side of the torrent.
He saw huge areas of rocks and turf, spotted with scrubby trees and patched with weeds and grass. Here and there grew prickly pear trees, their broad, spiked leaves grayed by yellow dust. Above were the pine forests, and masses of rocks forming great cliffs and precipices, and rising to a stupendous height the crown of perpetual snow. At the base, some distance off, were evidences of ancient landslides—gigantic piles of earth and rocks, with crumbling tree trunks protruding from the mass.
Bob Somers' thoughts were abruptly swung into another channel by a war of words between Pete Colliver and Conroy.
"What! You dare me to come over, eh?"
"I say ye dasn't!"
"Well, by gum, Wengeance Cauliflower, you an' a gatling gun together couldn't keep me back."
"Jack—I say, Jack," interposed Bob Somers, hastily, "hold on; no use in stirring up trouble."