Zachary's Gold Read Online Free PDF Page B

wheelbarrow.
    I set up my first sluice box near the top of the main channel in early July. I had been greatly excited to find two nuggets, each the size of a thimble, in a pan of dirt from one of the pits I had dug at about the four-foot level. I felt the fever of expectation upon me, and I pushed myself unmercifully, washing the equivalent of about two hundred pans from that pit, dragging it up one shovelful at a time. After all my exertions, I found nothing more than a small puddle of shiny dust.
    More than once, feeling I was on the verge of hitting real paydirt, I experienced this rush of optimism, only for it to bubble away, with myself none the richer. I had expected to find excitement by following the gold rush, but there was now nothing for me but hours of drudgery, punctuated by these frequent disenchantments.
    I have failed so far to mention one other of the great joys of living in that wild wonderland—the insects. Once the weather became warm enough to sustain a decent form of human life, it also gave birth to a myriad of species of flies—most of which seemed to be both gregarious and carnivorous. There were horseflies the size of robins, mosquitoes as big as butterflies, and tiny black flies that bit like terriers. Even the ones whose appetites did not lean towards man-flesh seemed to wish to swarm about as spectators or explore the inner regions of my ears and nose. The hum of tiny wings served as my lullaby at night and greeted me with every new morning.
    For long periods I became numb to the dreadful creatures and of necessity learned to ignore the stinging pinpricks, but from time to time the song of the black cloud would suddenly impinge upon my senses, and a brief claustrophobic panic would cause me to scream and run down the creek bank for a few seconds of relief.
    As I have said, it was a time of great labour and hardship for me, and my moods would sometimes fall into a sullen melancholy, when it was impossible to make myself work. I would be forced to conjure up unlikely fantasies of sudden wealth and dwell on them for some time before I once again felt sufficiently interested in my claim to recommence the tedious task of shovelling gravel. It is sometimes postulated that hard manual labour teaches a man the truth about himself. The only things I learned were that I hated to work with a shovel and that my feet deteriorate badly when they are kept constantly wet.
    A very short entry in my journal dated July 28 (although my exact figuring of dates was inaccurate at that stage) brings back less than fond memories for me. It says simply “Spoke to Greencoat,” and I had no heart then to expand on our meeting.
    I had reached the five-foot level of my sixth and last exploratory pit, beside the junction of the main stream and a lower tributary, across the way from the one the Chinaman was working. I was seated on the sluicebox, poring over my figures, when I suddenly became aware of the other man’s presence at the edge of the bush behind me.
    â€œYou’ll be getting close to ten dollars out a hundred pounds right through here, I imagine,” he said, as if we were in the middle of a discussion already. I was somewhat taken aback, as that was almost exactly what I myself had figured. I wished immediately that I could mutter something threatening and order him off, but both my rifle and revolver were back in my shelter. Besides, I was only prospecting there—I had no legal authority over the premises.
    I nodded and shrugged noncommittally.
    â€œThere’s better, farther along,” I said.
    He nodded.
    â€œA little, but not much. Up on the northernmost corner, close to the swamp, where the slate runs parallel to the surface, the gravel is good—good as where I’m at, I suppose, but that’s as rich as this gully gets.” He had approached me casually and was now staring at the chart on my lap. “I see you’ve got it all marked down. That’s