“How do you know?” queried Billy, quickly. “I’ve been thar, an’ now I’ve come back to tell my friends. Why, boys, out thar all you’ve got to do is to pull up the grass by the roots an’ shake out the gold. Pike’s Peak is solid gold, ’most. A feller can make a flat-bottom boat an’ set knives in the hull an’ slide down, scraping up the gold in slivers.” “Did you ever see that done?” demanded Mr. Baxter. “Not exac’ly, stranger. But I’m goin’ to do it.” That sounded like a tall story――although of course it _might_ be true. Billy and Mr. Baxter put small stock in the tale; but it filled Davy’s mind with delightful visions. He dreamed of taking a plough up Pike’s Peak and ploughing golden furrows clear to the bottom. Suddenly Salt Creek Valley and all the frontier along the Missouri River from St. Louis up to Omaha was excited. The Leavenworth papers printed wonderful stories of the new gold fields, where miners were washing out the precious metal. The Georgia party of miners, some of whom were Cherokee Indians, which had outfitted at Leavenworth last fall and had gone out by the southwest Santa Fe Trail to the mountains and thence north to Cherry Creek, had “struck it rich,” and had sent back the quills of gold to prove it. Already emigrants from the East were arriving in Leavenworth, wild to push on as soon as the spring opened. Between themselves Billy and Dave determined to join the crowd. It was all they could do to wait. One day early in March Davy was making a brief call at the Cody house, when Billy excitedly pointed from the front porch. “There’s the first one!” he cried. “There’s the first prairie schooner bound for the diggings! Let’s go down and meet it!” Away he rushed; Davy followed, and so did the girls. Mrs. Cody stood shading her eyes, watching. Across the valley crept a white-topped wagon drawn by two yoke of oxen. Beside the wagon was trudging a man, and behind followed another man pushing a two-wheeled cart. When Billy and Dave met the outfit they saw that two women were in the big wagon; one held a baby; on the other side of the wagon were sturdily trudging a boy and girl. A big shaggy dog barked at Turk, and Turk growled back. The wagon was a farm wagon covered with the cotton hood and stuffed with household goods. On the sides the hood bore, in scrawly black paint: “PIKE’S PEAK OR BUST.” “Hello!” hailed Billy. “Where you bound?” “To the new diggin’s, stranger,” responded the driver of the oxen. “See our sign?” “Do you live hyar’bouts?” asked the man who was pushing the hand-cart――which also was loaded with household stuff and camp stuff. The ox-team paused; the man pushing the hand-cart wiped his forehead with a red handkerchief. “Yes; we live up yonder near the top of the hill.” “How long do you reckon it’ll take us to get to Cherry Creek?” pursued the ox-team driver. “Two months if you keep going,” said Billy. “’Twon’t take as long as that, stranger,” replied the man. “We can travel right smart.”