"Jenny won't thank us any for bringing her from summer right into winter, I reckon," murmured George, as he and Terry spooned against each other, to keep warm. "No," replied Terry. "This 'pound of gold a day' song doesn't mean anything to her yet. But it'll be warm down in Tarryall, they say--just like back at the Gregory diggin's." "We ought to get there tomorrow." "Depends on how many more of these mountains there are," reasoned Terry. "Without that Tarryall man to guide us we'd all be lost, sure." On and on and on, into the south and southwest, continued the march: down and up, across more creeks, across more mountains, into canyons and out again; and when night arrived, no South Park and Tarryall diggin's were yet in sight. Nothing was in sight but thick timber and wild rocky ridges extending to snow-line. Near or distant, before, behind, on either side, the landscape was the same. "A few miles, boys, and we'll be there," promised the Tarryall man. "'Bout tomorrow noon, say. Then for your pound a day." "Seems as though that pound of gold a day was always ten or forty miles ahead of a fellow," complained Terry. "First it was at Cherry Creek, then it was at Gregory Gulch, and now it's somewhere yonder. He said fifty miles, and I bet we've hoofed a hundred and still we haven't struck it yet. Guess Harry and I'll have to sell the Golden Prize so as to get us some boots. Look at mine!" "We'll make moccasins or trade for some with the Injuns," consoled George. "When you're getting your pound a day you won't care." The straggling procession was well worn out by two days of long, hard marching afoot and ahorse, and most of the animals were foot-sore. But tonight's camp was more cheerful, because the new diggin's lay close before, over the next divide. Yes, the Tarryall man had promised truly, for about eleven o'clock in the morning the head of the procession shouted and cheered and waved. "South Park, boys--and Tarryall's in sight!" "Hooray!" cheered everybody, as the news spread back from mouth to mouth and ear to ear. "Gwan, Jenny!" bade George, clapping her on the gaunt flank; and driving her, he and Terry limped faster. Because they were boys they had been well treated, on the way over, but now when new diggin's were so close at hand they might expect no favors. Every party must rustle for itself. "Jenny! Gwan! Do you want to be left? Gwan! Hep with you!" "Hep with you!" echoed Terry. Jenny did her best; before and behind, the other outfits were doing their very best--crashing recklessly through the brush and timber and sliding and tumbling over the rocks. The head of the procession had disappeared over another little rise--perhaps was already in and at work locating the best pound-a-day claims! "Jenny! Jenny! Yip! Gwan!" urged George and Terry. And with their rivals treading on their heels they, too, mounted the little rise, gained the top, and now in the clear could gaze anxiously beyond.