From the high places glimpses were given, on the right, of a creek course below, bordered by willows and cottonwoods. This was that Clear Creek on whose headwaters in the mountains the Gregory strike had been made. But the landmark of Table Mountain drew near so gradually, in spite of the haste by everybody, that not until evening did it loom close at hand, shadowed with purple and rising a wall-like six hundred feet. Here the trail ran along Clear Creek itself, and the procession was halting for night camp, to water and graze the animals and to rest. On both sides of the creek prospectors had settled, to wash out gold; but now the most of them had quit work and in front of their tents and bough lean-tos were preparing supper. "Better stop off, boys," warned a hairy miner, who, squatting over a little fire, was deftly cooking flap-jacks--tossing them one by one from a fry-pan into the air and catching them other side down. "You can't go much farther till mornin'. There's a trail ahead so steep your mule'll have to turn over an' prop herself with her ears to keep from slidin' backwards." "Sounds like good advice," accepted Harry. "You going on in, or are you making your pile here?" "Makin' a pile o' flap-jacks, if those hungry partners don't eat 'em faster'n I can cook. Yep, we're goin' on somewhere, if this creek doesn't pan out better. We've been followin' the gold all the way from Pike's Peak an' the Boilin' Springs, an' the best diggin's alluz seem forty miles ahead." "Where are the Boiling Springs?" asked Terry. "Do they boil?" "Haven't you heard o' them yet? They're down at the foot o' Pike's--tremenjous good water, sody an' iron both an' a lot o' other minerals, I reckon; bubblin' an' poppin', an' liable to cure anything. Sacred to the Injun, they were, but they're powerful good for white man." Jenny, her pack removed, took a hearty roll, and a shake, and a long cold drink, and fell to browsing. Terry built a fire and prepared camp; Harry got out their own fry-pan and the coffee pot, and while the water in the pot was coming to a boil he proceeded to mix batter. "What'll it be?" queried Terry, hungry. "Flap-jacks." "I didn't know you could make them." "I didn't, either, to date. But I can." The first flap-jack stuck confoundingly, and would not turn at all except by pieces. So it burned, and they gave it to Shep. The next sailed free and high, and landed, dough side down, in Terry's lap. Terry started to laugh, but changed his tune and frantically tore the hot dough loose, then executed a war-dance while he sucked his fingers. "Too much flap," commented Harry. "Once again." This flap-jack flew straight for his face and he ducked only just in time to prevent being plastered. "Everything goes to Shep," he complained. "I can make 'em, all right, but I haven't the knack of turning 'em."