John Berwick's accident was the last touch which caused the uprising to crumble. One more great effort after the ideal of justice had fallen and parted.
Frank Corte was sitting in front of the Dominion Creek cabin, by the side of a pool of water that had formed since the claims—which rightfully belonged to himself and his three associates—had been taken over by the agents of Poo-Bah. The policy of the land was to reap to-day and spend to-morrow, so a dam had been put in on the "pup" or tributary of Dominion Creek that entered above the claims; and already a harvest was in sight. Frank had some possessions in the cabin, which he had come to fetch before joining the new stampede.
Above the cabin was a line of sluice-boxes, into which half-a-dozen lusty Scandinavians were shovelling the precious dirt. It was Frank's own claim they were working—and he gritted his teeth. For an instant his face lost its habitual grin. "If this was only God's country," he muttered, as he glanced through the open door of the cabin at the rifle hanging on the wall therein. He continued to whirl the gold-pan which he held in his hands. In the pan was a handful of dirt he was idly concentrating. "The boss won't stand for it—and he's a white man." Frank smiled again.
From the mining operations at the sluice-boxes, voices came to where Corte sat. Neither the foreman nor his men had realized that their voices were carrying beyond the sound of rushing water. They were shouting that they might hear each other above the roar in the sluices, and were laughing cheerily—for Poo-Bah was a good paymaster to his men. "One dollar, two dollar, one and six bits"—would float to Frank's ears, as the foreman estimated the contents of a pan; and he would inwardly groan as he calculated the wealth that was passing from him into the great grafter's pocket.
"I guess we'd better clean up; we can get her down to the black sand by half-past ten and finished an hour later."
Something rose in Frank's throat and almost choked him. The attitude of these intruders galled him. He half jumped up to seize his rifle, when "No," he muttered: "Them yellow-legs!"
His attention was attracted to the gold-pan. Specks of gold were floating upon the water; at the bottom of the pan he noticed an unmistakable grease spot, and, true to its nature, it had secured to its surface several of the tiny yellow grains. Grease was alike fatal to the gold-pan and the stamp battery.
Suddenly his eyes took on a new light: they were full of energy. He glanced towards the working miners, and followed the line of sluices to the artificial pond in the "pup" whence they got their water. "Yes, yes!" he muttered, and sprang to his feet. He hurried to the quarters of one of his friends, Jerry, the engineer on a neighbouring claim where a steam-plant had been installed.
"Jerry," said Frank, "I want two bottles of lubricating oil."
"Pretty near all I got."