word was spread through the gulch for a mass-meeting this evening to listen to a speech by horace greeley; but of far more importance, in terry's mind, was the news that his father and mother and the stantons were on the pike's peak trail! yes, sir; coming! they must have cut loose sooner than expected. but when would they arrive at cherry creek?
mr. richardson had not said; still, he had said that they were well equipped and were "pushing right along." they could not have arrived yet, of course; the greeley stage had got in only two or three days ago, and the stage coaches traveled mostly at a gallop and fast trot so as to cover fifty miles a day, including stops for dinner and sleep. the best teams could cover only twenty miles a day. anyway, they were coming, and he was wild to tell harry—and shep.
so as soon as he might knock off work on the casey claim he bustled to the cabin, and unloaded the news.
he and harry united in a war dance. shep barked. "that," quoth harry, when they had quieted down again, "is a joke on us." he rubbed his long nose and surveyed terry quizzically. "which of us will wear the clean shirt, to receive them in?"
"dunno," grinned terry. "but if they don't get here pretty quick there won't be any extra shirt. and one of your boots is plumb gone, already!"
"i know it," admitted harry. "i'll have to make moccasins. but we can't get clothes till we pay our debt."
"no, sir!" agreed terry. "we'll have to get that hundred dollars ahead, first." for upon this they were determined.
"we sure will," confirmed harry. "we wrote that we were rich with a gold mine, and told your father the hundred dollars would be waiting here for him, and a lot more besides! huh!"
"they think we're rolling in wealth," asserted terry. "now they'll laugh."
"no, i don't believe they'll laugh," said harry. "we did make a long brag, though. but chances are they didn't get that letter before they started. we'll write them, to denver, and just say we're doing well. then they'll know where we are."
"george'll laugh," insisted terry. "he'll laugh when he finds you're cooking pies and i'm working by the day for pat casey! i told him i'd have a claim ready for him, so he could start in digging."
"ha, ha!" cheered harry. "well, we've got the claims, haven't we? and he can dig all he wants to. we're doing the best we can. you're earning a dollar and a half a day, and i'm the champion cook of the diggin's—i sold three pies and a batch of biscuits today, all for dust."
"how much've we got in our oyster-can, i wonder?"
"quite a lot, after you've been paid off," alleged harry, cheerfully. "but trouble is, flour and apples and soda and salt cost so plaguey much—and we have to eat, ourselves. so that means coffee and meat and—pshaw! but not a stitch of clothes do we buy, mind you, till we're square with father richards."
"don't believe dad'll need the hundred dollars," declared terry.
"maybe he will and maybe he won't," answered harry. "but we let on we had a bonanza, and now we've got to make good. that's the joke."
"shucks!" bemoaned terry. "we can't go down to denver or auraria in these rigs, to meet real folks. we look like—like—i don't know what. your pants are split clear across the knee."
"no worse split than yours," retorted harry. "and my best boot is better than your best one!"
"we'll have to stay out of sight in the mountains," asserted terry, "till we get enough dust to buy clothes with."
"well," said harry, "here's where we belong. we're all right for gregory gulch—and we don't know when to meet the folks, anyway. by the time they turn up we may have our can heaping full from my pies and your wages, or we may be regularly sluicing out the gold from the golden prize and the true blue, and go down to denver in time to put on broadcloth and brand new boots!"
"if we only had water," sighed terry.
"that's the one thing that keeps us from being millionaires," sighed harry. "and it's one thing or another with most people—or else we'd all be millionaires. counting up beforehand is the easiest part of getting rich."
"just the same, i know this much," blurted terry. "some day all of a sudden george stanton will come straight into this gulch, with his pick and spade, looking for the gold that he'll say we promised him."
"then we'll put him to work baking, or digging with you and pat," laughed harry.
the mass meeting that evening to hear horace greeley speak was a great affair. everybody went—that is, everybody who wanted to. clothes did not matter. at least 2,000 people gathered, and they wore all kinds of garb, from buckskin to rags. they stood about, or sat upon the ground and stumps and logs; and mr. greeley, in a long whitish coat, addressed them, after having been given three cheers.
he said that his day's trip through the diggin's had convinced him that this was a gold region as rich as california, and now he was of the opinion that a new state should be formed. he urged the miners to work hard and faithfully, and not drink or gamble. it was work instead of gambling and running about that would make them successful. he hoped that they all would live honest, upright lives, just as though their home folks were with them; and if anybody would not so live, he should be placed upon a horse or mule and told to ride and not come back. he said that one purpose in his visiting the pike's peak country was to find out the truth regarding the mines; but that another purpose was to cross the continent and get information that would hasten the building of a railway—the pacific railway, to extend from the missouri river to the pacific ocean!
hooray for horace greeley! and again hooray!
mr. richardson spoke, and so did mr. williams, the pike's peak express co. superintendent, and others. they all were cheered, also.
"it's funny we don't see sol judy anywhere, isn't it?" remarked terry, as after another rousing round of cheers for the visitors, and the gregory diggin's, and a new state of jefferson, the meeting broke up. "i thought we might 'spy him in that crowd."
"so did i," admitted harry. "but he'll turn up again. he always does."
the horace greeley party spent the next day in the diggin's, and then went back to denver. it was understood that they had decided to make a favorable report to their papers, saying that there was plenty of gold to be found by those who knew how to find it; but that people who were doing well in business and on their farms in the east ought to stay there instead of starting off on a wild-goose chase.
"that's right," supported harry. "only about one person in ten in this very gulch is making any money mining. the rest of us are just living and hoping."
he continued his cooking, and terry continued to work for pat. that was hard work, too—all day in the muddy soil, digging, and dumping the heavy spadesful into the sluice, and stirring, and running along to follow the dirt down, and once or twice each day cleaning up the sluices. but harry had no easy job, either. fire wood was getting scarcer and needs must be carried farther—and the rusty stove burned a terrible amount. and water must be carried up by the bucket. and jenny must be attended to, so that she should have water and grazing. and the washing done. and the meals got, the same as ever. and there was the worry over obtaining a supply of flour and dried apples—especially the dried apples, for the pies.
the pies contracted for by pat were the chief source of income in the cooking line, although occasionally harry did sell a pie or some bread to other customers. but more women were arriving in the gulch, and they, too, did cooking.
the oyster-can grew heavier only very slowly. what with the high prices of flour and apples and other stuff, and what with the amount of provisions they ate themselves, there really was not so much profit in cooking, after all.
but toward the last week of june harry calculated that the dust in the oyster-can was approaching the $100 sum. and now they both began to wonder again when the folks and the stantons would appear.
then the not unexpected occurred.
terry was deep down in pat's pit and toiling lustily, and was already mud and dirt from crown to soles, when from above somebody hailed him. george stanton, of course! not only george, but virgie, too. they were peering in, george afoot and virgie from the back of the indian pony that last year had been captured from thunder horse, the mean kiowa.
george wore a natty buckskin suit, and his revolver, of make-believe wooden hammer; and with a blanket roll on his back, and a new pick and spade on his shoulder, and a new gold-pan slung at his side, he evidently was all prepared for business. virgie wore a sunbonnet and a cleanish gingham dress. they both looked so spic and span that terry realized how different he looked, himself. but with an instant whoop of welcome he clambered out to shake hands.
"hello, george! hello, virgie! cracky, i'm glad to see you! when did you get in? where are the folks?"
"down in denver," answered george. "virgie and i came up with some people we met on the trail. is this your mine? did you find one for me, too?"
"you're awful dirty," accused virgie, wiping her hand on her dress.
"i reckon i am, virgie," agreed terry. "so'd you and george be, if you weren't tenderfeet. how'd you know where to find us? did you get our letters?"
"yes; got the one you wrote from denver—got it at manhattan, just as we were starting. we came through in twenty-one days. your dad and mine have a cracking good team apiece. and we got another you wrote to denver from these diggin's. found it waiting for us. is this your mine? where's harry? did you discover one for me? where's the gold? we hear you've struck it rich! the folks sent us up to see. do you want them, too?"
"who told you we'd struck it rich?" demanded terry.
"a sick boy down at denver. he heard us asking for our mail, and asked if your father was any kin of yours. he says he knows your mine; it's the golden prize, and it's a bonanza; regular humdinger! so i was looking for it, and i saw the top of your hat, and i told virgie: 'there's terry richards' hat, and i bet he's under it!' is this the mine? is that other man working for you? where's harry? shall i get down in and dig, too? i'm not afraid of dirt."
"naw, this isn't the golden prize," confessed terry, bluffly. "it's another mine—belongs to pat casey. i'm helping him. but i'll quit and take you over to the cabin. 'tisn't far. wait till i tell pat."
pat likewise was out of the pit, and had visitors: two men talking at him hotly and gesturing with their fists, while pat responded in kind. they all seemed to be having an angry argument.
"oh, pat!" appealed terry. "i'm going over to the cabin a minute, if you don't mind. i've got some friends to show about."
"sure, go on," bade pat. "stay the mornin', if ye like. there'll be no more dirt turned on this property till afternoon ag'in, annyhow—barrin' oi don't start a graveyard in your absince."
that was an odd remark, but pat appeared to be so enraged at something or other newly come up that terry did not delay to interfere farther.
"all right; let's go," he said to george and virgie.
he led off; george stumped behind, weighted with blanket roll, wooden-hammer revolver, pan, and pick and spade; virgie followed on her pony. terry, in his mud and ragged clothes, felt like an old-timer, as he conducted these "tenderfeet" to the cabin home in the busy gulch.
"golly, there are a lot of people in here, aren't there?" panted george, impressed by the many curious sights. "are they all making their pile?"
"no, i should say not, yet. but they're all trying."
"how much do you think you've got already? a thousand dollars?"
"uh-uh. we haven't weighed it; haven't any scales."
"i want to see some gold," piped virgie.
"i'll show you some when we get to the cabin," promised terry.
"is harry at the cabin?" queried george.
"yes; we'll surprise him."
"what's he doing? is the cabin at your mine? is he mining there while you're mining at that other place? who's pat casey? why don't you and harry mine together?"
"i guess he's cooking. somebody has to cook," explained terry. "and clean up."
"well, you need cleaning up, all right," asserted george. "reckon you'd better not let your mother see you in those clothes! she'd have a fit."
"aw, we old miners all dress like this," retorted terry. "it's only tenderfeet who fix up."
"nobody'd take you for a millionaire, that's sure," scoffed george. "say!" he added. "you sold duke, didn't you? i saw him in a show, there at denver—or auraria, i mean, but it's all the same thing. what'd you do that for? they're going to match him with a bear as soon as they can find the bear—have a fight!"
"oh, shucks!" deplored terry. "did you see thunder horse's head, too?"
"was that thunder horse? didn't look like him now! where'd they get his head? thought pine knot ike had it. you said so in your letter."
"yes, he did have it on the trail. but mr. o'reilly bought it for the show. and pine knot ike's in here. he's with a gang not very far from us."
"i don't like thunder horse, and i'm hungry," piped virgie.
"we'll have something to eat in a jiffy," comforted terry. "there's the cabin."
"which one?" queried george.
"that one with the sign on. see? on that little rise."
"what does the sign say—'pike's peak limited'? or 'the golden prize'?" urged george. "'golden prize mine,' i bet."
"i see harry! we're going to s'prise harry," rejoiced virgie.
that seemed evident, for harry was sitting against the cabin wall, under the sign, and busily engaged.
"he's panning gold, isn't he?" exclaimed george, excited.
"naw," said terry, weakly. "he's panning dough, i reckon."
"oh, look!" cried virgie.
for harry had sprung up at the approach of another man around the corner of the cabin—was telling him to get out—the man would not go—jumped for harry—got the pan of dough square on the head—and they closed and swayed, wrestling. shep appeared, to circle and bark and snap.
virgie screamed.
"that's pine knot ike!" gasped terry, jumping forward.
and george, dropping pick and spade and ducking from his blanket roll, fairly streaked it, shouting and flourishing his wooden-hammer revolver. he easily beat terry.
suddenly pine knot ike went staggering from one of harry's clever trips, and saw george and the big revolver. away he lunged, legging it and making an odd sight with his head and shoulders plastered by dough, and shep nipping at his trousers' seat.
"you'd better get," threatened george, pursuing, "or i'll shoot you into little bits!"
harry quickly drew back his arm and threw—the piece of rock struck ike between the shoulders. whereupon, as if thinking that he really had been shot, ike uttered a loud yelp, gave a prodigious leap, and legged faster.
"bang!" shouted george.
when terry and virgie arrived, george was returning, considerably swelled up with the triumph of his wooden-hammer gun, and harry was laughing.
"there go four dollars' worth of dough and my pocket piece. howdy, virgie? hello, george! much obliged. where are the other folks?"
"they're down at cherry creek. we came——"
"what was the matter? what'd he want?" interrupted terry. "the big lummix!"
"i don't know. he was hanging 'round—i 'spied him poking about on that other claim yonder, and when i ordered him off with the shot-gun he said something about 'taking it out of my hide.' so he sneaked in on me when i wasn't looking. i don't think my hide would pan out much, but he might get good color out of terry's and my clothes."
"aw——!" blurted george, who now had read the sign. "'gregory gulch bakery! harry revere & co.'! what do you mean by that? i thought you had a gold mine!"
"so we have," chuckled harry. "at two dollars a pie, and a dollar and a half a day loading pat casey's sluice."
george indignantly flung his hat on the ground.
"but i didn't come 'way out here to bake pies or work for a dollar and a half a day," he accused, as if they were to blame. "we-all thought you were rich, and i was going to dig on my own hook and get rich, too."
virgie, who did not understand, but sensed a disappointment, began to wail.
