The nomad in him responded
easily to this leisurely pilgrimage. There was no stampede
anywhere to stir their blood with the thought of quick wealth.
There was hope enough, on the other hand, to keep them going.
Cash had prospected and trapped for more than fifteen years now,
and he preached the doctrine of freedom and the great outdoors.
Of what use was a house and lot--and taxes and trouble with
the plumbing? he would chuckle. A tent and blankets and a frying
pan and grub; two good legs and wild country to travel; a gold
pan and a pick--these things, to Cash, spelled independence
and the joy of living. The burros and the two horses were
luxuries, he declared. When they once got located on a good claim
they would sell off everything but a couple of burros--Sway
and Ed, most likely. The others would bring enough for a winter
grubstake, and would prolong their freedom and their independence
just that much. That is, supposing they did not strike a good
claim before then. Cash had learned, he said, to hope high but
keep an eye on the grubstake.
Late in August they came upon a mountain village perched
beside a swift stream and walled in on three sided by pine-
covered mountains. A branch railroad linked the place more or
less precariously with civilization, and every day--unless
there was a washout somewhere, or a snowslide, or drifts too deep
--a train passed over the road.
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