Harry soon returned jubilant, without the sacks.

"All right. We're fixed," he proclaimed. "I traded them in for a sack of dried apples. The man didn't appreciate their value, at first, but I explained. Value No. 1: Most of the cabins hereabouts have only dirt floors; the sacking will be fine for carpets to keep the dust down.

Value No. 2: It will be handy for covering windows, to keep out the wind. Value No. 3: It will be useful to patch pants with, instead of buckskin. Value No. 4: It will lengthen pants--in fact, the pants of that _Rocky Mountain News_ peddler gave me the idea. Value No. 5: It will make good ticking for straw mattresses. To tell the truth, it is so valuable that I wouldn't part with any of it except for dried apples.

Now we can have pie!"

They bestowed on Duke and the cart a friendly good-luck slap, shook hands with Mr. Reilly, and proceeded to the store with Jenny. The purchases amounted to considerable. First, a pack-saddle, not brand new, but of ash and rawhide in excellent condition; a sack of flour, the sack of dried apples, a quarter of antelope meat--the only cheap meat, at four cents a pound; five pounds of coffee (very dear), soda, salt, sugar, soap, a square of rawhide for soling their boots, two miner's pans for washing out the gold, etc., etc.

These, with the picks and spades, and the bedding, and the cooking and eating utensils made quite a problem. No wonder that Jenny groaned when the saddle was cinched upon her.

However, with her pack bulging on either side and atop, the tools projecting and the cooking utensils jingling, she accepted her fate, and stepping in cautious, top-heavy fashion submitted to being headed out of town into the trail for the Platte River crossing.

Terry, the shot-gun upon his shoulder, and Harry, shouldering a pick and spade that had not fitted anywhere, followed close after. So did Shep, who carried nothing but his s.h.a.ggy coat. On the whole, no one could deny that this was a real prospecting outfit.

"Forty miles, they say, to those Gregory diggin's," remarked Harry.

"Wonder if they mean forty or four hundred? You see that flat-top mountain--the first mountain in the northwest? How far do you think it is?"

"Five miles," a.s.serted Terry.

"Well, it's _eighteen_ miles! They call it Table Mountain. That's where we go in. So when a fellow's looking five miles, in this country, he's looking eighteen, and that makes forty miles about one hundred and fifty."

The trail was becoming crowded as other outfits converged from the right and left for the Platte crossing. It was a procession much like the procession on the Pike's Peak trails--oxen, horses, mules, cows, dogs, wagons; and men, women and children either afoot or riding. But there were more men with packs on their backs and more animals packed like Jenny.

The long-legged Jenny, her pack swaying and jingling, could be urged past the slower travelers--and well that was, for ere the Platte was reached, the wagons in the procession had stopped. They formed a waiting line several hundred yards in length. Forging to the front, Terry and Harry might see the occasion. The Platte evidently was to be crossed by means of a flat-boat ferry, running back and forth on a cable. So the wagons need must bide their turn.

Harry went forward to investigate. He came back with a rueful face.

"Two dollars and a half for a wagon outfit; a dollar and a half for our outfit," he reported. "The ferry's run by a couple of Indian traders named McGaa and Smith. Wonder if we can't ford."

"Nary ford, this time o' year, strangers," reproved a red-shirted miner. "See those wagons; they'll be out o' sight by noon! Quicksand!"

Several wagons foolishly had tried to ford; and there they were, abandoned, some of them even only a few rods out. Already just the tops of two were visible above the surface.

"Guess we won't risk it," agreed Terry.

So they paid their fee, and squeezing in aboard the ferry, were carried across.

The trail continued, entering amidst low rolling swells of sandy gravel and spa.r.s.e, tufty gra.s.s and stiff brush, between which and over and on toiled the pilgrimage for the new diggin's where one John Gregory and others were harvesting their pound of gold a day. The Gregory claim was said to be so marvelously rich and yellow that no strangers had been permitted to see it.

From the high places glimpses were given, on the right, of a creek course below, bordered by willows and cottonwoods. This was that Clear Creek on whose headwaters in the mountains the Gregory strike had been made. But the landmark of Table Mountain drew near so gradually, in spite of the haste by everybody, that not until evening did it loom close at hand, shadowed with purple and rising a wall-like six hundred feet.

Here the trail ran along Clear Creek itself, and the procession was halting for night camp, to water and graze the animals and to rest. On both sides of the creek prospectors had settled, to wash out gold; but now the most of them had quit work and in front of their tents and bough lean-tos were preparing supper.

"Better stop off, boys," warned a hairy miner, who, squatting over a little fire, was deftly cooking flap-jacks--tossing them one by one from a fry-pan into the air and catching them other side down. "You can't go much farther till mornin'. There's a trail ahead so steep your mule'll have to turn over an' prop herself with her ears to keep from slidin'

backwards."

"Sounds like good advice," accepted Harry. "You going on in, or are you making your pile here?"

"Makin' a pile o' flap-jacks, if those hungry partners don't eat 'em faster'n I can cook. Yep, we're goin' on somewhere, if this creek doesn't pan out better. We've been followin' the gold all the way from Pike's Peak an' the Boilin' Springs, an' the best diggin's alluz seem forty miles ahead."

"Where are the Boiling Springs?" asked Terry. "Do they boil?"

"Haven't you heard o' them yet? They're down at the foot o'

Pike's--tremenjous good water, sody an' iron both an' a lot o' other minerals, I reckon; bubblin' an' poppin', an' liable to cure anything.

Sacred to the Injun, they were, but they're powerful good for white man."

Jenny, her pack removed, took a hearty roll, and a shake, and a long cold drink, and fell to browsing. Terry built a fire and prepared camp; Harry got out their own fry-pan and the coffee pot, and while the water in the pot was coming to a boil he proceeded to mix batter.

"What'll it be?" queried Terry, hungry.

"Flap-jacks."

"I didn't know you could make them."

"I didn't, either, to date. But I can."

The first flap-jack stuck confoundingly, and would not turn at all except by pieces. So it burned, and they gave it to Shep. The next sailed free and high, and landed, dough side down, in Terry's lap. Terry started to laugh, but changed his tune and frantically tore the hot dough loose, then executed a war-dance while he sucked his fingers.

"Too much flap," commented Harry. "Once again."

This flap-jack flew straight for his face and he ducked only just in time to prevent being plastered.

"Everything goes to Shep," he complained. "I can make 'em, all right, but I haven't the knack of turning 'em."

"You can shout there's a knack, Mister," agreed the other flap-jack performer, who now had stepped over to watch. "You'll not be a true miner till you can toss a flap-jack up the cabin chimbley an' ketch it again outside, turned over. Where you boys from?"

"Blue River Valley, Kansas. We were the Pike's Peak Limited; now we're the Extra Limited," explained Harry.

"The Russell brothers are somewhar in this hyar procession, aren't they?"

"Are they? All of them?"

"So I heard tell. They left Aurary today, for the new diggin's."

"Are the Gregory diggin's full of gold?" eagerly invited Terry.

"Mebbe so, for people who know how to find it. Trouble is, this country's fuller of people who don't know how to find it."

He went back to his own fire. Harry turned the rest of the flap-jacks with a knife, and they were very good. He really had become an excellent camp cook.

"Jiminy! Wish we could see Sol Judy at the diggin's," voiced Terry. "He knows all about gold. He was in California."

"Yes, Sol knows gold, and I have an idea we don't," answered Harry, with sober reflection.

"I suppose when we see something yellow we'll save it," hazarded Terry, more hopefully.

Forward, march, with morning light, to Gregory Gulch! Clear Creek had to be forded; and while, soaked to the knees, they trudged on behind the shambling Jenny, and Terry was wondering how they were to climb Table Mountain, the trail left the creek, veered to the right, and traversed a deep narrow gulch whose rocky bottom, scored by wagon-tires, made rough going.

"Great Caesar's ghost!" uttered Harry, as they rounded a shoulder.