When but one speck of gold rewarded his washing， hestopped and built a fire of dry twigs. Into this he thrustthe gold-pan and burned it till it was blue-black. He heldup the pan and examined it critically. Then he noddedapprobation. Against such a color-background he coulddefy the tiniest yellow speck to elude him.
Still moving down the stream， he panned again. A singlespeck was his reward. A third pan contained no gold atall. Not satisfied with this， he panned three times again，taking his shovels of dirt within a foot of one another.
Each pan proved empty of gold， and the fact， instead ofdiscouraging him， seemed to give him satisfaction. Hiselation increased with each barren washing， until he arose，exclaiming jubilantly：
“If it ain’t the real thing， may God knock off my headwith sour apples！”
Returning to where he had started operations， he beganto pan up the stream. At first his golden herds increased—increased prodigiously. “Fourteen， eighteen， twenty-one，twenty-six，” ran his memory tabulations. Just above thepool he struck his richest pan—thirty-five colors.
“Almost enough to save，” he remarked regretfully as heallowed the water to sweep them away.
The sun climbed to the top of the sky. The man workedon. Pan by pan， he went up the stream， the tally of resultssteadily decreasing.
“It’s just booful， the way it peters out，” he exulted whena shovelful of dirt contained no more than a single speckof gold.
And when no specks at all were found in several pans， hestraightened up and favored the hillside with a confidentglance.
“Ah， ha！ Mr. Pocket！” he cried out， as though to an auditorhidden somewhere above him beneath the surface of theslope. “Ah， ha！ Mr. Pocket！ I’m a-comin’， I’m a-comin’， an’
I’m shorely gwine to get yer！ You heah me， Mr. Pocket？ I’mgwine to get yer as shore as punkins ain’t cauliflowers！”
He turned and flung a measuring glance at the sunpoised above him in the azure of the cloudless sky. Thenhe went down the canyon， following the line of shovelholeshe had made in filling the pans. He crossed thestream below the pool and disappeared through the greenscreen. There was little opportunity for the spirit of theplace to return with its quietude and repose， for the man’svoice， raised in ragtime song， still dominated the canyonwith possession.
After a time， with a greater clashing of steel-shod feeton rock， he returned. The green screen was tremendouslyagitated. It surged back and forth in the throes of astruggle. There was a loud grating and clanging of metal.
The man’s voice leaped to a higher pitch and was sharpwith imperativeness. A large body plunged and panted.
There was a snapping and ripping and rending， and amid ashower of falling leaves a horse burst through the screen.
On its back was a pack， and from this trailed broken vinesand torn creepers. The animal gazed with astonished eyesat the scene into which it had been precipitated， thendropped its head to the grass and began contentedly tograze. A second horse scrambled into view， slipping onceon the mossy rocks and regaining equilibrium when itshoofs sank into the yielding surface of the meadow. It wasriderless， though on its back was a high-horned Mexicansaddle， scarred and discolored by long usage.
The man brought up the rear. He threw off pack andsaddle， with an eye to camp location， and gave the animalstheir freedom to graze. He unpacked his food and got outfrying-pan and coffee-pot. He gathered an armful of drywood， and with a few stones made a place for his fire.
“My！” he said， “but I’ve got an appetite. I could scoffiron-filings an’ horseshoe nails an’ thank you kindly， ma’am，for a second helpin’.”
He straightened up， and， while he reached for matchesin the pocket of his overalls， his eyes travelled across thepool to the side-hill. His fingers had clutched the matchbox，but they relaxed their hold and the hand came outempty. The man wavered perceptibly. He looked at hispreparations for cooking and he looked at the hill.
“Guess I’ll take another whack at her，” he concluded，starting to cross the stream.
“They ain’t no sense in it， I know，” he mumbledapologetically. “But keepin’ grub back an hour ain’t goin’ tohurt none， I reckon.”
A few feet back from his first line of test-pans he starteda second line. The sun dropped down the western sky，the shadows lengthened， but the man worked on. Hebegan a third line of test-pans. He was cross-cutting thehillside， line by line， as he ascended. The centre of eachline produced the richest pans， while the ends came whereno colors showed in the pan. And as he ascended thehillside the lines grew perceptibly shorter. The regularitywith which their length diminished served to indicate thatsomewhere up the slope the last line would be so short asto have scarcely length at all， and that beyond could comeonly a point. The design was growing into an inverted “V.”
The converging sides of this “V” marked the boundariesof the gold-bearing dirt. The apex of the “V” was evidentlythe man’s goal. Often he ran his eye along the convergingsides and on up the hill， trying to divine the apex， thepoint where the gold-bearing dirt must cease. Hereresided “Mr. Pocket” —for so the man familiarly addressedthe imaginary point above him on the slope， crying out：
“Come down out o’ that， Mr. Pocket！ Be right smart an’
agreeable， an’ come down！”
“All right，” he would add later， in a voice resigned todetermination. “All right， Mr. Pocket. It’s plain to me I gotto come right up an’ snatch you out bald-headed. An’ I’lldo it！ I’ll do it！” he would threaten still later.
