Feverish with desire， with aching back and stiffeningmuscles， with pick and shovel gouging and mauling thesoft brown earth， the man toiled up the hill. Before himwas the smooth slope， spangled with flowers and madesweet with their breath. Behind him was devastation. Itlooked like some terrible eruption breaking out on thesmooth skin of the hill. His slow progress was like that ofa slug， befouling beauty with a monstrous trail.
Though the dipping gold-trace increased the man’swork， he found consolation in the increasing richnessof the pans. Twenty cents， thirty cents， fifty cents， sixtycents， were the values of the gold found in the pans， andat nightfall he washed his banner pan， which gave him adollar’s worth of gold-dust from a shovelful of dirt.
“I’ll just bet it’s my luck to have some inquisitive cusscome buttin’ in here on my pasture，” he mumbled sleepilythat night as he pulled the blankets up to his chin.
Suddenly he sat upright. “Bill！” he called sharply. “Now，listen to me， Bill； d’ye hear！ It’s up to you， to-morrowmornin’， to mosey round an’ see what you can see.
Understand？ To-morrow morning， an’ don’t you forget it！”
He yawned and glanced across at his side-hill. “Goodnight， Mr. Pocket，” he called.
In the morning he stole a march on the sun， for he hadfinished breakfast when its first rays caught him， and hewas climbing the wall of the canyon where it crumbledaway and gave footing. From the outlook at the top hefound himself in the midst of loneliness. As far as he couldsee， chain after chain of mountains heaved themselves intohis vision. To the east his eyes， leaping the miles betweenrange and range and between many ranges， brought upat last against the white-peaked Sierras—the main crest，where the backbone of the Western world reared itselfagainst the sky. To the north and south he could see moredistinctly the cross-systems that broke through the maintrend of the sea of mountains. To the west the ranges fellaway， one behind the other， diminishing and fading intothe gentle foothills that， in turn， descended into the greatvalley which he could not see.
And in all that mighty sweep of earth he saw no signof man nor of the handiwork of man—save only the tornbosom of the hillside at his feet. The man looked long andcarefully. Once， far down his own canyon， he thought hesaw in the air a faint hint of smoke. He looked again anddecided that it was the purple haze of the hills made darkby a convolution of the canyon wall at its back.
“Hey， you， Mr. Pocket！” he called down into the canyon.
“Stand out from under！ I’m a-comin’， Mr. Pocket！ I’ma-comin’！”
The heavy brogans on the man’s feet made him appearclumsy-footed， but he swung down from the giddyheight as lightly and airily as a mountain goat. A rock，turning under his foot on the edge of the precipice， didnot disconcert him. He seemed to know the precisetime required for the turn to culminate in disaster， andin the meantime he utilized the false footing itself forthe momentary earth-contact necessary to carry him oninto safety. Where the earth sloped so steeply that it wasimpossible to stand for a second upright， the man did nothesitate. His foot pressed the impossible surface for but afraction of the fatal second and gave him the bound thatcarried him onward. Again， where even the fraction of asecond’s footing was out of the question， he would swinghis body past by a moment’s hand-grip on a jutting knobof rock， a crevice， or a precariously rooted shrub. At last，with a wild leap and yell， he exchanged the face of the wallfor an earth-slide and finished the descent in the midst ofseveral tons of sliding earth and gravel.
His first pan of the morning washed out over two dollarsin coarse gold. It was from the centre of the “V”. To eitherside the diminution in the values of the pans was swift.
His lines of cross-cutting holes were growing very short.
The converging sides of the inverted “V” were only a fewyards apart. Their meeting-point was only a few yardsabove him. But the pay-streak was dipping deeper anddeeper into the earth. By early afternoon he was sinkingthe test-holes five feet before the pans could show thegold-trace.
For that matter， the gold-trace had become somethingmore than a trace； it was a placer mine in itself， and theman resolved to come back after he had found the pocketand work over the ground. But the increasing richness ofthe pans began to worry him. By late afternoon the worthof the pans had grown to three and four dollars. The manscratched his head perplexedly and looked a few feet upthe hill at the manzanita bush that marked approximatelythe apex of the “V”. He nodded his head and said oracularly：
“It’s one o’ two things， Bill； one o’ two things. Either Mr.
Pocket’s spilled himself all out an’ down the hill， or elseMr. Pocket’s that damned rich you maybe won’t be able tocarry him all away with you. And that ’d be hell， wouldn’tit， now？” He chuckled at contemplation of so pleasant adilemma.
Nightfall found him by the edge of the stream， his eyeswrestling with the gathering darkness over the washing ofa five-dollar pan.
“Wisht I had an electric light to go on working，” he said.
He found sleep difficult that night. Many times hecomposed himself and closed his eyes for slumber toovertake him； but his blood pounded with too strongdesire， and as many times his eyes opened and hemurmured wearily， “Wisht it was sun-up.”
Sleep came to him in the end， but his eyes were openwith the first paling of the stars， and the gray of dawncaught him with breakfast finished and climbing thehillside in the direction of the secret abiding-place of Mr.
Pocket.
The first cross-cut the man made， there was space foronly three holes， so narrow had become the pay-streak andso close was he to the fountainhead of the golden streamhe had been following for four days.
“Be ca’m， Bill； be ca’m，” he admonished himself， as hebroke ground for the final hole where the sides of the “V”