there was very little time to be lost. when in the morning they had eaten breakfast and had packed jenny (who did not seem to object to a change from doing nothing all day) with a buffalo robe and a blanket and the picks and spades and cooking stuff and some provisions, and had placed a note for harry—"gone to get rich. will see you later"—and sallied down the gulch, terry with his shot-gun on his shoulder and george with his wooden-hammer revolver at his belt, and each with a gold-pan slung on his back, the procession for the new diggin's already had started.

it looked quite like business, too—a long file composed of men riding horses or mules, and of men driving pack animals, and of other men afoot and carrying their packs, pressing south, out of the gulch, evidently following the lead of the tarryall man.

"once we locate our pound of gold a day, these other diggin's can go hang, can't they?" puffed george, as they hurried.

"i should say!" concurred terry. "all we'll do will be to come back and get harry and sell to that pine knot ike crowd, and then we'll light out again. glad we didn't say where we're bound for. when we sell we can pretend to ike that we're plumb disgusted."

"sure. let's push up in front."

they were fast-footed and jenny was long-legged, and they passed one after another of their rivals, until they were well toward the van. the wagon-man guide could be seen in the advance, guiding up a steep divide between the north clear creek and the south clear creek. the route appeared to be by an old indian trail; and the divide itself grew into a mountain. higher and higher led the trail—a tough climb that made the procession straggle.

it was a great relief when the trail conducted down again, on the other side, to south clear creek, and crossed, and turned up, through a beautiful country, to a couple of lonely lakes. but presently it began to climb over another mountain!

terry limped, george limped, everyone afoot limped, no stop had been made for lunch. everybody was afraid that somebody else would get to the pound-a-day first.

"wonder how far we've come now?" panted george.

"you're a tenderfoot. you're petered out already!" accused terry. "we aren't half there."

"i don't limp any worse than you do," retorted george.

"keep a-going."

"keep a-going."

on top of this mountain they all in the advance ran into a snowstorm, while the people lower down, behind, evidently were warm and comfortable. then night fell—a real january night—and camp had to be made.

however, george was game. he proved to be a good campaigner, for a tenderfoot; and as an old-timer terry of course needs must pretend that this kind of camping was nothing at all. so they pitched in together and cooked supper like the rest of the crowd, and went early to bed on top of the blanket and underneath the buffalo robe.

"jenny won't thank us any for bringing her from summer right into winter, i reckon," murmured george, as he and terry spooned against each other, to keep warm.

"no," replied terry. "this 'pound of gold a day' song doesn't mean anything to her yet. but it'll be warm down in tarryall, they say—just like back at the gregory diggin's."

"we ought to get there tomorrow."

"depends on how many more of these mountains there are," reasoned terry. "without that tarryall man to guide us we'd all be lost, sure."

on and on and on, into the south and southwest, continued the march: down and up, across more creeks, across more mountains, into canyons and out again; and when night arrived, no south park and tarryall diggin's were yet in sight. nothing was in sight but thick timber and wild rocky ridges extending to snow-line. near or distant, before, behind, on either side, the landscape was the same.

"a few miles, boys, and we'll be there," promised the tarryall man. "'bout tomorrow noon, say. then for your pound a day."

"seems as though that pound of gold a day was always ten or forty miles ahead of a fellow," complained terry. "first it was at cherry creek, then it was at gregory gulch, and now it's somewhere yonder. he said fifty miles, and i bet we've hoofed a hundred and still we haven't struck it yet. guess harry and i'll have to sell the golden prize so as to get us some boots. look at mine!"

"we'll make moccasins or trade for some with the injuns," consoled george. "when you're getting your pound a day you won't care."

the straggling procession was well worn out by two days of long, hard marching afoot and ahorse, and most of the animals were foot-sore. but tonight's camp was more cheerful, because the new diggin's lay close before, over the next divide. yes, the tarryall man had promised truly, for about eleven o'clock in the morning the head of the procession shouted and cheered and waved.

"south park, boys—and tarryall's in sight!"

"hooray!" cheered everybody, as the news spread back from mouth to mouth and ear to ear.

"gwan, jenny!" bade george, clapping her on the gaunt flank; and driving her, he and terry limped faster.

because they were boys they had been well treated, on the way over, but now when new diggin's were so close at hand they might expect no favors. every party must rustle for itself.

"jenny! gwan! do you want to be left? gwan! hep with you!"

"hep with you!" echoed terry.

jenny did her best; before and behind, the other outfits were doing their very best—crashing recklessly through the brush and timber and sliding and tumbling over the rocks. the head of the procession had disappeared over another little rise—perhaps was already in and at work locating the best pound-a-day claims!

"jenny! jenny! yip! gwan!" urged george and terry. and with their rivals treading on their heels they, too, mounted the little rise, gained the top, and now in the clear could gaze anxiously beyond.

"i see it! i see the camp!" exclaimed terry.

"so do i. but, whew! this is a big place, isn't it?" puffed george.

south park was indeed large, and also beautiful; being an immense flat, miles wide and miles long, grassy and green and dotted with timber patches and bare round hills—yes, and with buffalo and deer, too!—and well watered by winding streams and the snows of high encircling mountains. the sight might well make one gasp, but another sight should be attended to first: that of the leading gold-seekers spurring their horses and mules diagonally across in a race for a glimmer of tents set amidst willows and pines against the west edge.

and pellmell, hobbling and shouting and straining, all the ragged company strung out after.

"if we won't be first, we won't be last, just the same," panted terry.

the tarryall diggin's resolved into three or four tents and several bough huts along a creek where it formed a broad gulch as it issued from the mountains. the gulch was being worked with rockers and pans, and claim stakes seemed to be planted clear through, from side to side. in fact, when, breathless, their eyes roving eagerly, terry and george arrived, business-bent, it looked as though the whole ground had already been occupied by the discoverers!

"tarryall! this isn't tarryall—it ought to be named grab-all!" was denouncing one of the leaders who had won the race from the last ridge. "what do you think, boys?" he addressed, as the other gregory gulch in-comers paused and jostled uncertainly. "there are twelve of these tarryall fellows, and they've each of 'em staked off two thousand feet! that means twenty-four thousand feet of claims—nearly five miles! is that fair? no! by miners' law a claim's one hundred feet."

"you're right. one hundred feet."

"tear up those stakes."

"no thousand or two thousand foot business goes with us!"

"they've invited us in here. they've got to give us a show."

"grab-all! grab-all! that's the name for this camp: grab-all!"

the murmur of responses was instant. the gregory gulch men surged angrily. the tarryall men—twelve, now that the guide from gregory gulch had joined them—stood in a compact little group. they were a sturdy, rough-and-ready squad, well armed and able to take care of themselves. their spokesman, a burly, shaggy-bearded individual, stepped out a pace, and tapped the butt of his revolver significantly.

"that's tall talk, gentlemen," he said, "but it's wasted on us. this is our camp. we've discovered this ground. we came in here first, where no white men ever prospected before and where the injuns are liable to raise our hair any moment; we've drawn our own regulations, and i reckon we're going to hold what we've got. no white men, or injuns either, can tell us what we're to do. if you want peace you can have it; if you want a fight, you can have it; for here we are, and anybody that tries to jump a claim that we've got marked out will be making his last jump—you can bank on that. there's plenty ground left; don't you touch ours."

for a minute things looked ugly, as the gregory gulch crowd growled indignantly, and the tarryall squad waited, watchful and unafraid. then the other man spoke.

"let's have dinner, boys. after that we'll prospect 'round and hold a little meeting, and see whether this camp is to be tarryall or grab-all. tarryall is what we were invited to join, but if these fellows think we're in here to buy them out because we can't find anything else to do, they're mighty mistaken. it's a smooth scheme, but it won't work."

"we can run 'em out, all right, if they don't play fair," boasted george, as he and terry imitated the rest of the company and prepared dinner.

"i don't know. there'd be a lot of men killed," reasoned terry. "they were in here first, and we promised to respect their rights as locators."

"we weren't told they'd staked out all the ground, though. they're allowed only a hundred feet at a time."

"that's the gregory gulch rule, but this isn't gregory gulch; it's a different district," argued terry, who felt that he'd rather prospect than fight. "maybe we all can find thousand-feet claims."

"well, we can't find 'em in tarryall," stormed george. "and tarryall's the place we were brought to. i guess they expect us to buy. it's a put-up job."

the meeting was held immediately after dinner. hot speeches were made, and several resolutions were passed: one changing the name from tarryall to "grab-all," and another declaring that all claims should be one hundred feet. however, nobody seemed quite up to enforcing this new rule on the claims already staked. amidst threats and bluster and glowering looks the tarryall squad warily resumed their daily work, and gradually the gregory gulch crowd spread out, searching here and there for color, but taking care not to trespass.

"no fight," decided george, as if disappointed. "it's going to be just a grab-all. get your tools if you want your pound a day."

"that's what we came for," reminded terry, as they shouldered pick and spade apiece. "we won't wait for any fight. come on; leave the stuff here."

"somebody'll steal your shot-gun."

"don't think so. i can't carry that, too! but i can put it in one of those tarryall tents."

"i'll wear my revolver. i don't leave that," pronounced george, wagging his head.

"sure. you ought to travel well heeled, in these parts, sonny." one of the tarryall men had strolled over. "if you don't, that dutchman will take your scalp."

"what dutchman?" demanded terry.

"he's holed up in a gulch about a mile yonder. he's like the rest of us original discoverers—what he has he's bound to keep. we all give him a clear field, and i'd advise you to do the same. it's an unhealthy neighborhood hereabouts for claim jumpers. you're two plucky lads. any more in your party?"

"no, sir. we're our own outfit," informed terry. "but we've got another partner, and some prospects, back in the gregory diggin's."

"do you know where we can dig a pound a day here? that man who brought us in said you were digging a pound a day," challenged george.

"so we are—or will be as soon as we get our lumber in place for sluices. but you newcomers won't locate any pound a day ground in this gulch. we've seen to that and we don't propose to be bullied out of our rights as discoverers. we risked our lives to come in here; but of course we'd be glad of company. we own the ground and we own the water. you fellows find your ground and your water, and all together we'll stand off the injuns. i thought i'd warn you about the dutchman, though—you two boys, at any rate. i don't want to see you harmed. you were speaking about leaving your scatter-gun," he concluded, more gruffly, to terry. "that's all right. i'll keep an eye on it for you. if you don't bother the dutchman he won't bother you."

"he'd better not," asserted george. "i'm going to wear my gun. who is he and what does he want around here?"

"crazy, i told you. thinks he has a strike, and maybe he has. but it's well to let a crazy man alone, and as long as he stays away from us we stay away from him. the park's big enough for that. dutchman diggin's, we've named his gulch. one of the boys happened in there, by accident, and was run out at the point of a shot-gun. all we see of the dutchman is when he's hunting, and even then he's not far away from home, you bet. now, that gulch is just beyond the second bunch of timber, south. see? and i'm warning you, friendly, because you're young."

"we'll watch out. much obliged," promised terry.

"yes, but he'd better watch out, too," blustered george. "we're no tenderfeet. this gun of mine is a humdinger. he won't know it's got a wooden hammer, and it might shoot."

"pshaw, now!" laughed the tarryall man. "you certainly walk kind of tender-footed. but go ahead and find your pound a day."

"guess we'll try south, just the same," said terry, to george, as they struck off. "we can dodge the dutchman, and there aren't many of the crowd down that way."

"where'll we begin?" queried george, keeping pace.

"whenever we come to a low place where there's water we'll pan for color. that's the only way," instructed terry. "the gulches are the best places."

"well, we'll have to locate our own diggin's pretty quick and hustle back for harry, or we'll be all out of grub," declared george.

this search for color was fascinating work, especially when they had the field practically to themselves. there were so many likely places, one after another. terry planned to pattern after john gregory, and follow the color right to the source—that is, follow it when once they had found it. but to find it was the chief difficulty.

they panned faithfully clear up the first gulch, to its head—passing a few other "panners." then they took the trail of a side draw and crossed over to another gulch and panned there. once they thought that they had struck something, but it proved to be only a trace, and they lost even that. the country was getting wild and lonely.

"don't suppose there are any injuns watching, do you?" suddenly suggested george, as they were crossing a little pass that appeared to lead to still another draw or gulch.

"no." pine and rock basked peacefully and innocent in the afternoon sunshine. "nobody said anything about 'em. shep would smell 'em. he hates injuns. we'll try this next gulch and come out at the lower end, and then make tracks for camp. the sun's going to set."

they crossed over the ridge and descended.

"she looks like a good one, this time, doesn't she!" appraised george, while they strode and slid and leaped down the short slope, with shep scouting on either hand.

"we're too high up for water, though," criticized terry. "can't pan without water."

the gulch was a small one, and dry. they followed along the bottom, where a stream course had worn the pebbles round and scored the soil into banks.

"i hear water," uttered terry. "there's a stream ahead, all right."

the gulch was joined by another gulch entering at an angle—and by a stream, as well.

"here's your good place to pan," exulted terry. "see the gravel and the bars? sort of an eddy. regular pound-a-day place!"

"yes; and somebody else has been digging, too!" growled george, disgusted. "can't we ever discover anything?"

"they aren't digging now. those are only gopherings. we'll get deeper. that's where the big strikes lie—down deep on bed-rock," encouraged terry.

"dig deep, boy," bade george.

"dig deep, for a pound a day."

and they set to work. george's spade clinked on rock, and at blade length he carefully dumped dirt and gravel into his pan.

"golly, i believe i see gold!" he breathed. terry paused to await results. george panned feverishly—grew more and more excited. "hurrah! look-ee here! we've struck it!" his pan, not yet fully cleared, was sparkling and yellow all over the bottom! "we've struck it!"

"we've struck it!" cheered terry, forgetful of his own pan awaiting.

they danced. shep barked and gamboled. and a heavy voice broke in with—

"ja! you struck it. maybe not! maybe you get struck mit a club! hold your hands up an' keep quiet until i see what kind of robbers you are dot come into my gulch."