"Well, we'll have to locate our own diggin's pretty quick and hustle back for Harry, or we'll be all out of grub," declared George. This search for color was fascinating work, especially when they had the field practically to themselves. There were so many likely places, one after another. Terry planned to pattern after John Gregory, and follow the color right to the source--that is, follow it when once they had found it. But to find it was the chief difficulty. They panned faithfully clear up the first gulch, to its head--passing a few other "panners." Then they took the trail of a side draw and crossed over to another gulch and panned there. Once they thought that they had struck something, but it proved to be only a trace, and they lost even that. The country was getting wild and lonely. "Don't suppose there are any Injuns watching, do you?" suddenly suggested George, as they were crossing a little pass that appeared to lead to still another draw or gulch. "No." Pine and rock basked peacefully and innocent in the afternoon sunshine. "Nobody said anything about 'em. Shep would smell 'em. He hates Injuns. We'll try this next gulch and come out at the lower end, and then make tracks for camp. The sun's going to set." They crossed over the ridge and descended. "She looks like a good one, this time, doesn't she!" appraised George, while they strode and slid and leaped down the short slope, with Shep scouting on either hand. "We're too high up for water, though," criticized Terry. "Can't pan without water." The gulch was a small one, and dry. They followed along the bottom, where a stream course had worn the pebbles round and scored the soil into banks. "I hear water," uttered Terry. "There's a stream ahead, all right." The gulch was joined by another gulch entering at an angle--and by a stream, as well. "Here's your good place to pan," exulted Terry. "See the gravel and the bars? Sort of an eddy. Regular pound-a-day place!" "Yes; and somebody else has been digging, too!" growled George, disgusted. "Can't we ever discover anything?" "They aren't digging now. Those are only gopherings. We'll get deeper. That's where the big strikes lie--down deep on bed-rock," encouraged Terry. "Dig deep, boy," bade George. "Dig deep, for a pound a day." And they set to work. George's spade clinked on rock, and at blade length he carefully dumped dirt and gravel into his pan. "Golly, I believe I see gold!" he breathed. Terry paused to await results. George panned feverishly--grew more and more excited. "Hurrah! Look-ee here! We've struck it!" His pan, not yet fully cleared, was sparkling and yellow all over the bottom! "We've struck it!" "We've struck it!" cheered Terry, forgetful of his own pan awaiting. They danced. Shep barked and gamboled. And a heavy voice broke in with-- "Ja! You struck it. Maybe not! Maybe you get struck mit a club! Hold your hands up an' keep quiet until I see what kind of robbers you are dot come into my gulch."