Next day, I roll my spare set of clothes into my blanket and canvas, putting all else into a canvas bag. I decide to leave behind pick and shovel because such things would be a burden when traveling, and I can outfit myself again, should I continue to dig. For now, I just crave to be away. I’m fortunate our take of late has been reasonable. There’s dust in my poke along with a couple tiny nuggets. I strap on a holster and load my pistol as a traveling man needs protection that a digging man may not.
“I won’t miss Whiskey Slide,” I tell Chet as I shake his hand.
“Good luck,” he returns and I climb into the wagon. Two men sit up front while three of us ride in back with our gear. When we get moving, I don’t look back.
It’s rough going with roads so bad. We get stuck so often that we elect
