The Pike's Peak Rush Part 35

"Well, guess we'll go down to the other end," sighed Terry.

"This sure is a tough proposition," said George, using professional language. "Anyway, we've got enough to live on for a day or two, haven't we? Wonder when Harry'll be back."

"He won't come back till he has Duke; you can depend on that. Maybe he hasn't money enough."

"He can borrow from the folks."

"He won't, though. He'd rather work and earn some more."

"You can sell your mine, can't you, if you have to?" asked George. "He said sell it. And we can sell the True Blue. I'd as lief."

"We gave it to Virgie," reminded Terry.

"Aw, she wouldn't care. It's no good, is it? It doesn't own any water."

"Well, 'tisn't as good as the Golden Prize," admitted Terry. "Maybe we'll sell the Golden Prize and find something better. But I'd like to wait till Harry comes. I'd hate to sell it to that Pine Knot Ike gang."

"They offered you $100, though, didn't they?"

"Y-yes," admitted Terry. "It's better than nothing, of course."

They two (for Shep had been left to guard the cabin) were retracing their steps by a slightly different route down the opposite side of the gulch, so as not to miss any chances, and now came upon the wheel-barrow man.

"Why, h.e.l.lo, young Pike's Peak Limited," he greeted. "How's the gold-seeking business?"

"We're not gold-seeking, we're job-seeking," explained Terry. "Do you know of a job for a couple like us?"

The wheel-barrow man appeared to have packed up. His blanket roll and a fry-pan and tin cup were laid ready in front of his closed cabin.

"What's the matter? Didn't your prospects pan out?" he queried.

"We haven't any water, so we quit. Then I worked for Pat Casey, and he quit, and we can't even sell pies," confessed Terry.

"Where's your other partner?"

"He went down to Denver and Auraria, to buy our buffalo back. They're trying to match Duke against a bear."

"Pshaw! That so? I'm going down to Denver myself, to look about in time before snow flies. I understand it begins to snow up here in September, and everybody'll be driven out."

"What'll you do with your mine? You've got one, haven't you?" asked George.

"Sure pop, young man. And it's recorded, too, on the district books; and if anybody jumps it while I'm gone there'll be a heap of trouble for him. It's in black and white, described according to miners' law.

Say--if you boys really want to work, you go on to Gregory Point, near the mouth of the gulch, and maybe you can get a day's work, or several days' work, on the new church they're putting up there for a preacher."

"Come on, George," bade Terry. And--"Much obliged," he called back.

"Where's your wheel-barrow?"

"Played out at last. Don't need it, anyway. Can carry all I've got on my back."

"What's 'recorded'?" queried George, as they hurried off. "Are our claims recorded?"

"Don't think so," puffed Terry. "n.o.body told us to record 'em. They're ours, and we've been sitting on them right alone. I'll ask Harry when he comes back."

"Or we can ask Pat Casey," proposed George.

They did not find Pat. His pit was idle and he was away--hunting witnesses to the sale by which he had bought the prospect. But they found the church, or rather the site of the church, on Gregory Point, as that was called, near the mouth of the gulch. Already a platform like a floor had been constructed; several men were busy hauling logs and leveling the ground with spades for another building; and the Yale preacher from the True Blue claim had his sleeves rolled up and was working with the rest. It was to be his church!

He warmly welcomed Terry, and shook hands with George also.

"Yes, indeed; plenty of work here," he jubilated--and Terry's heart beat expectantly. "We need strong arms. Bring along ax and spade, and pitch in. But," he added, "everything is donated, of course. The labor, material, ground--all is a gift to help the good cause. The people in the gulch are mighty generous, and their payment will come in this opportunity regularly to worship G.o.d instead of always worshipping gold.

They can't live in a civilized fashion without a church. So the quicker we have such a place, the better. What do you say? Want to help?"

Terry looked at George; George looked at Terry.

"I'd rather do that than do nothing," blurted George. "Only----"

"So would I," answered Terry. "But you see," he said, to the preacher, "those claims have played out----"

"That's too bad," sympathized the preacher. "Both of them?"

"Yes, sir. We can't mine 'em till we have water. The water's gone. And our jobs busted, and I reckon we'll have to earn our keep. But we'd as lief help here till we strike another job."

"All right. Bully for you! To work once in a while for something besides money never hurts anybody," a.s.sured the preacher. "I have to do a lot of that myself. Bring down your tools whenever you feel like it. I expect some of the men will be working here all night because they can't spare the time during the day. We're going to finish the church and my cabin before Sunday. But maybe you'd rather wait till morning. It's nearly supper time now. Come after supper, though, to the prayer-meeting. We hold the first prayer-meeting, around this platform. And I'll want you to join the Sunday-school."

They left the enthusiastic preacher and his volunteers building the first church in the diggin's.

"Might as well go home, I guess," remarked Terry.

Twilight was empurpling the hills when they arrived. This had been a lively day, but not a very successful one.

"Anyway, we've got enough to eat," quoth George. "And if we work on the church that may lead to something else. We'll keep busy."

"Sure," agreed Terry. "Keep a-going, as Harry said, all the way out.

Keep a-going."

By the time that they had finished supper and washed the dishes the gulch was again redly outlined by the hundred camp fires. The sounds of axes and picks and saws had ceased, and there arose the hum of conversation, broken by shouts and laughs and occasional bits of music.

As they stumped along their way to the prayer-meeting (which was quite an event) they pa.s.sed a tent where somebody was playing the violin--and farther on, in a cabin, a group of men were singing "Home, Sweet Home,"

to the tune of an accordian.

The prayer-meeting was being held, sure enough. There on the point was the platform, lighted by torches and surrounded by a throng of people sitting on the ground and stumps and boxes and logs, listening to the preacher. Or--no!

"That's the Lord's Prayer! They're all saying the Lord's Prayer!"

uttered George, awed.

So they were--or at least from this distance the cadence sounded like the Lord's Prayer, repeated in unison by those whiskered men of flannel shirts and high boots and revolvers and by the tanned women in shabby calico dresses. A great sight that was--and a very good sound, for these parts or any parts.

"There's another meeting!" whispered Terry, for he did not feel like speaking aloud when the Lord's Prayer was being recited. "Haven't got two preachers, have we?"