The
streams that sucked their life from the snow crests of the Sierras were
yellow with it. It lay, a dusty sediment, in the prospector's pan. It
spread through the rock cracks in sparkling seams.
The strangers capped story with story, chanted the tales of fantastic
exaggeration that had already gone forth, and up and down California
were calling men from ranch and seaboard. They were coming down from
Oregon along the wild spine of the coast ranges and up from the Mission
towns strung on highways beaten out by Spanish soldier and padre. The
news was now en route to the outer world carried by ships. It would
fly from port to port, run like fire up the eastern coast and leap to
the inland cities and the frontier villages. And next spring, when the
roads were open, would come the men, the regiments of men, on foot,
mounted, in long caravans, hastening to California for the gold that
was there for anyone who had the strength and hardihood to go.
The bearded man got up, went to his horse and brought back his pack.
He opened it, pulled off the outer blanketing, and from a piece of
dirty calico drew a black sock, bulging and heavy.
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