“Yes,” said Boylston, “an’ the smallest of ’em’s good fur ten thousand, ef it’s full. An’ when yer come to five-pound powders—why, one of them would make two fellers rich!” They passed quickly and quietly through Greenhorn’s Bar. The diggings at the Bar were very rich, and experienced poker-players, such as were Twitchett’s executors, had made snug little sums in a single night out of the innocent countrymen who had located at the Bar; but what were the chances of the most brilliant game to the splendid certainty which lay before them? They reached Black Peter Gulch and found Twitchett’s hut still unoccupied, save by a solitary rattlesnake, whose warning scared them not. Mr. Baker carefully covered the single window with his coat, and then Boylston lit a candle and examined the clay floor. There were several little depressions in its surface, and in each of these Boylston vigorously drove his pick, while Mr. Baker stood outside alternately looking out for would-be disturbers, and looking in through a crack in the door to see that his partner should not, in case he found the can, absentmindedly spill some of the contents into his own pocket before he made a formal division. Boylston stopped a moment for breath, leaned on his pick, stroked his yellow beard thoughtfully, and offered to bet that it would be an oyster-can. Mr. Baker whispered through the crack that he would take that bet, and make it an ounce. Boylston again bent to the labor, which, while it wearied his body, seemed to excite his imagination, for he paused long enough to bet that it would be a five-pound powder-can, and Mr. Baker, again willing to fortify himself against possible loss, accepted the bet in ounces. Suddenly Boylston’s pick brought to light something yellow and round—something the size of an oyster-can, and wrapped in a piece of oilskin. “You’ve won _one_ bet,” whispered Mr. Baker, who was inside before the yellow package had ceased rolling across the floor. “Not ef _this_ is it,” growled Boylston; “it don’t weigh more’n ounce can, wrapper and all. Might’s well see what ’tis, though.” The two men approached the candle, hastily tore off the oilskin, and carefully shook the contents from the can. The contents proved to be a small package, labeled: “_My only treasures._” Boylston mentioned the name of the arch-adversary of souls, while Mr. Baker, with a well-directed blow of his heel, reduced the can from a cylindrical form to one not easily described by any geometric term. Unwrapping the package, Mr. Baker discovered a picture-case, which, when opened, disclosed the features of a handsome young lady; while from the wrappings fell a small envelope, which seemed distended in the middle. “Gold in that, mebbe,” suggested Boylston, picking it up and opening it. It _was_ gold; fine, yellow, and brilliant, but not the sort of gold the dead man’s friends were seeking, for it was a ringlet of hair.