“Now, if you’re a poet, take a look at that valley. Ever see anything prettier than that? That’s why we’re here—this valley. Cattle graze in the free range, and there’s always water in the creek.”
The boy looked up at him.
“If there was three hundred dollars in that creek, I’d care for it. Otherwise not.”
He turned and dragged himself back toward the house. An idea came to Dog, who had racked his brain for three days for one—came with that suddenness that is characteristic of ideas. Anything was better than the present situation. He called the boy back, spoke to him in hushed tones.
“There might be.”
“Might be what?”
“Three hundred dollars in that creek. I’m not saying there is, but I’ll say that it looks an awful lot like a creek that Ducky and I took thirty thousand dollars out of in the Klondike, and I might add—”
“How do you get gold out of a creek?”
Hooray! There might be a chance yet. Get the lad interested in any kind of outdoor work, and give the good old Montana ozone a chance on him.
“I’ll show you.”