The Man From The Bitter Roots

The bar of sand and gravel upon which their cabin stood, and where Bruce now was working, was half a mile in width and a mile and a half or so in length. He had followed a pay streak into the bank, timbering the tunnel as he went, and he wheeled his dirt from this tunnel to his rocker in a crude wheelbarrow of his own make.

He filled his gold pan from the wheelbarrow, and dumped it into the grizzly, taking from each pan the brightest-colored pebble he could find to place on the pile with others so that when the day's work was done he could tell how many pans he had washed and so form some idea as to how the dirt was running per cubic yard.

His dipper was a ten-pound lard can with a handle ingeniously attached, and as he dipped water from the river into the grizzly, the steady, mechanical motion of the rocker and dipper had the regularity of a machine. If he touched the dirt with so much as his finger tips he washed them carefully over the grizzly lest some tiny particle be lost. Bruce was as good a rocker as a Chinaman, and than that there is no higher praise.

When the black sand began to coat the Brussels-carpet apron, Bruce stooped over the rocker frequently and looked at the shining yellow specks.

"She's looking fine to-day! She's running five dollars to the cubic yard if she's running a cent!" he ejaculated each time that he straightened up after an inspection of the sand, and the fire of hope and enthusiasm, which is close to the surface in every true miner and prospector, shone in his eyes. Sometimes he frowned at the rocker and expressed his disapproval aloud, for years in isolated places had given him the habit of loneliness, and he talked often to himself. "It hasn't got slope enough, and I knew it when I was making it. I don't believe I'm saving more than seventy per cent. I'll tell you, hombre, grade is everything with this fine gold and heavy sand."

While he rocked he lifted his eyes and searched the sides of the mountains across the river. It seemed a trifle less lonely if occasionally he caught a glimpse of Slim, no bigger than an insect, crawling over the rocks and around the peaks. Yet each time that he saw him Bruce's heavy black eyebrows came together in a troubled frown, for the sight reminded him of the increasing frequency of their quarrels.

"If he hadn't soldiered," he muttered as he saw Slim climbing out of a gulch, "he could have had a good little grub-stake for winter. Winter's going to come quick, the way the willows are turning black. Let it come. I've got to pull out, anyhow, as things are going. But"--his eyes kindled as he looked at the high bank into which his tunnel ran--"I certainly am getting into great dirt."