It’s November now. Abel takes care to keep track of the date on a worn calendar like we got from the feed store back home. His just says “Higgins,” but not what Higgins does. I wonder if he got it at the store or did he maybe bring it from New York.
Work is colder, the days shorter. Some days it rains so hard we can hardly see each other and the creek all but floods the rocker box. We seem to be fighting Ma Nature as much as digging gold, and our take is small.
Then one day, when rain has pounded the roof all night and at dawn is coming down in buckets, Abel opens the door a crack, then shuts it. “To hell with it,” he declares. “I’m not working in that.”
As I’m still rolled up in blankets, I say only “good” before going back to sleep.
Later, when I wake again, I find Abel lying in bed
