"That's what we want," decided Harry. "A regular sluice, running right across our claim." "There's the wheel-barrow man!" exclaimed Terry. And so it was, standing in front of a tent which bore the sign, "W. N. Byers. The Rocky Mountain News," and nearby was a stake and a sign: "Central City." They shook hands with the wheel-barrow man. "What's this?" demanded Harry. "A town?" "Yes, sir! Mr. Byers has named it. It's the best location. Right in the middle of the Gulch." "Is he going to stay here?" "Nope; but he's pushing things along. What's happened to you boys? You look as if you'd been prospecting." "We have," laughed Harry. "Haven't you?" "Yes, a little." And he suddenly called: "Hello, John. What's the matter down there?" "They've got wind of another strike," answered the man, striding on. He was a black-bearded man, and seemed very busy. "That's John Gregory himself," explained the wheel-barrow man. "The original boomer of this gulch. But watch the people pile out, will you!" "Yes; there's a big strike south of here, I understand," from the doorway of his tent spoke Mr. Byers himself: a stocky, pleasant-faced man, with a close-trimmed brown beard. The diggin's had as great a variety of beards and whiskers as it had of people. So he was the pioneer newspaper man, was he--the man who had brought a printing-press, and a stock of paper already printed on one side at Omaha, clear from the Missouri River to Cherry Creek. But Terry was given scant opportunity to stare. Harry clutched him by the sleeve: "Come on, quick! I've got an idea." Away they hastened, back down the gulch. Before, at the lower end, the confusion was increasing. Outfits were hurrying away--drivers swinging their lashes, men footing fast; camps were breaking, and on their claims miners and prospectors were shouldering pick and spade and pack and hastening after the procession now crossing the creek. The movement spread up the gulch, communicated from camp to camp and claim to claim. "What'll we do? Get more land?" puffed Terry. "No, no." But the lower end of the gulch was not by any means deserted, as they arrived. It was mainly the frothy overflow that had bubbled out, and when the eddy had settled there appeared to be almost as many people as before. Even the claims which had been abandoned were being quickly re-occupied. However, Harry dashed to one man who had packed up and on his cabin was tacking a sign: "Keep Off!" while his partner waited. "Going to leave?" "Mebbe so. Want to buy this claim? She's a humdinger." "No. But I'll buy your sluice. How'll you sell it?" "That sluice? Seventy-five dollars." "Whew!" "It's forty feet long, of three boards; that means 120 feet, and lumber's $300 a thousand feet and you have to put in your order a week ahead. With the props and the cleats and the nails there's over $40 of material in that sluice, and I reckon the labor of hauling and building is wuth the balance." "I'll give you $50," snapped Harry.