I burst in on Bagsby, who was smoking his pipe and leisurely washing the breakfast dishes, with a whoop, lifted him bodily by the shoulders, whirled him around in a clumsy dance. He aimed a swipe at me with the wet dish cloth that caught me across the eyes. "You tarnation young grizzly b'ar!" said he. I wiped the water from my eyes. Johnny and Buck Barry ran up. Somehow they did not seem to be anticipating an Indian attack after all. Johnny ran up to thump me on the back. "Isn't it _great_!" he cried. "Right off the reel! First pop! Bagsby, old sport, you're a wonder!" He started for Bagsby, who promptly rushed for his long rifle. "I'm going to kill the first lunatic I see," he announced. Johnny laughed excitedly, and turned back to thump me again. "How did you guess what it was?" I asked. "Didn't. Just blundered on it." "What!" I yelled. "Have you struck it, too?" "First shovel," said Johnny. "But you don't mean----" I thrust my three nuggets under his eyes. "Say," broke in Buck Barry, "if you fellows know where the whiskey is, hide it, and hide it quick. If I see it, I'll get drunk!" Yank and McNally at this moment strolled from around the bushes. We all burst out on them. "See your fool nuggets and 'colour,' and raise you this," drawled Yank, and he hauled from his pocket the very largest chunk of virgin gold it has ever been my good fortune to behold. It was irregular in shape, pitted and scored, shaped a good deal like an egg, and nearly its size. One pound and a tiny fraction that great nugget balanced--when we got around to weighing it. And then to crown the glorious day which the gods were brimming for us, came Don Gaspar and Vasquez, trailed by that long and saturnine individual, Missouri Jones. The Spaniards were outwardly calm, but their eyes snapped. As soon as they saw us they waved their hats. "Ah! also you have found the gold!" cried Don Gaspar, sensing immediately the significance of our presence. "We, too. It is of good colour; there above by the bend." His eye widened as he saw what Yank held. "_Madre de dios!_" he murmured. McNally, who had said and done nothing, suddenly uttered a resounding whoop and stood on his hands. Missouri Jones, taking aim, spat carefully into the centre of the fire, missing the dishpan by a calculated and accurate inch. "The country is just _lousy_ with gold," he pronounced. Then we blew up. We hugged each other, we pounded each other's backs, we emulated McNally's wild Irish whoops, finally we joined hands and danced around and around the remains of the fire, kicking up our heels absurdly. Bagsby, a leathery grin on his face, stood off one side. He still held his long-barrelled rifle, which he presented at whoever neared him. "I tell you, look out!" he kept saying over and over. "I'm shootin' lunatics to-day; and apparently there's plenty game to choose from." CHAPTER XXIII THE CAMP ON THE PORCUPINE