Ef
the spot air fur off, I can't come an' I won't, not fur haffen the
make."
"'T ain't fur off at all--scant haffen mile," replied unwary Birt,
anxious to convince. "It air jes' yander nigh that thar salt lick
down the ravine. I marks the spot by a bowlder--biggest bowlder I
ever see--on the slope o' the mounting."
The instant this revelation passed his lips, regret seized him.
"But ye ain't ter go thar 'thout me, ye onderstand, till we begins
our work."
"I ain't wantin' ter go," Nate protested. "I ain't sati'fied in my
mind whether I'll ondertake ter holp or no. That pullin' fodder ez
I hev got ter do sets mighty heavy on my stomach."
"Tim an' yer dad ALWAYS pulls the fodder an' sech--I knows ez that
air a true word," said Birt, bluntly. "An' I can't git away from
the tanyard at all ef ye won't holp me, 'kase old Jube 'lowed he
wouldn't let me swop with a smaller boy ter work hyar; an' all them
my size, an' bigger, air made ter work with thar dads, 'ceptin' you-
uns."
Nate heard, but he hardly looked as if he did, so busily absorbed
was he in fitting this fragment of fact into his mental mosaic. It
had begun to assume the proportions of a distinct design.
He suddenly asked a question of apparent irrelevancy.
"This hyar land down the ravine don't b'long ter yer folkses--who do
it b'long ter?"
"Don't b'long ter nobody, ye weasel!" Birt retorted, in rising
wrath. "D'ye s'pose I'd be a-stealin' of gold off'n somebody else's
land?"
Nate's sly, thin face lighted up wonderfully.
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