Part 2
“Forgot this one,” he said, and wrenched the pin from where it was soldered to the back of the nugget. “Take this and plant it.”
* * * * *
The washing-machine rocking device kept Percival happy all next day, and his eye was lighted by a particularly bright gleam of elation as he settled to the fried pork and beans at dinner next night.
“If we just had about one more piece of salt,” mourned Ducky, after Percival had climbed the ladder, but Dog shook his head. The stick-pin had cleaned the place of nuggets.
“We’ve done all we can,” he said. “I wish he’d find something of his own.”
But Ducky shook his head at this. No chance. And yet, come dinner time next night, here sits Percival again, looking as cocky as a cat that’s eaten a canary. Throughout the meal Dog and Ducky cast anxious eyes at him. Percival finished, pushed his plate toward the center of the table, got up, thrust his hand deep into his right-hand trouser pocket and brought forth something wrapped in a bit of paper. He unwrapped the paper and held out for inspection a nugget twice as large as any that the conspirators had planted for him.
“I worked in new ground today, farther up the creek. Good night.”
They watched him, fascinated, as he climbed the ladder to the loft.
“Suffering crawfish!” hissed Ducky, after he had safely gone.
Dog said nothing at all for a full minute, and then:
“You remember that Swede at Dawson that took a million dollars out of the place we gave up as no good.”
“I remember,” said Ducky. “Probably nothing to this.”
“Probably not,” agreed Dog, but without conviction. “We’ll see what he brings home tomorrow night.”
* * * * *
Next night Percival stoked as usual, pushed back his plate, got up, fished into his right-hand trouser pocket and produced two nuggets about the size of the one he had displayed the night before.
Dog cleared his throat and spoke with elaborate casualty.
“Just where are you working now?”
“Up the creek. Around that second bend. Good night.”
Again they watched him climb the ladder. Ducky spoke first.
“That takes him out of our land, onto the free range. All he’s got to do is stake his claim.”
“I know it. Let’s wait one more day.”
At the end of the day that followed, Percival again ate his dinner, pushed back his plate and dug into his right-hand trouser pocket, producing this time three nuggets.
“Getting better,” he said, and started toward the ladder, but this time Dog called to him.
“Of course a nugget now and then don’t really mean anything.”
“They’re good for money,” said Percival calmly. “After I get enough of them, I can trade them for three hundred dollars, and that’s what I need to get back to New York.”
Dog looked at Ducky, and Ducky at Dog. Dog spoke.
“That’s all you want, is it? Three hundred dollars?”
“That’s all.”
“Well--” Dog seemed to hesitate. “If that’s really all you want, maybe Ducky and I could scrape it up between us.”
“All right. Take me to town tomorrow, and give me three hundred dollars. Good night.”
Again he started for the ladder, and this time they let him go. Dog looked at Ducky, and Ducky looked at Dog. Spud Dugan, who had been standing by, put in an oar.
“You’re going to put this over on him, are you?”
“It’s his own proposition,” said Dog decisively.
“Looks raw to me,” answered Spud. “All I got to say is that money or anything else that’s come by through sharp practice don’t ever do nobody no good. I hope you never find a thing after that kid’s gone.”
“Oh, dry up,” said Dog. “What does a poet want with money, anyhow?”
* * * * *
They got an early start for town, to catch the stage, and made it. Dog and Ducky held brief but effective converse with old man Kellifer at the store, who always had money, and came out of the conference with a roll of bills, which Dog handed to Percival, just as the stage was ready to start. Percival gave brief thanks, ran across to the Ideal Cafe for a moment, then climbed aboard the stage, while Ducky heaved his big bags into the freight compartment. Duke Envers, the driver, cranked the big truck, and the engine burst into a violent coughing. Envers got aboard and started his stage, and Dog and Ducky watched it, until all that was visible was a fine swirl of dust in the far distance.
“Well, that’s that!” said Dog. “He’s gone, and gone for good. Couldn’t call him back if we wanted to. Couldn’t catch him.”
“Well, let’s not worry,” answered Ducky. “All I want to do now is to get back to that creek and find out what we’ve got. How rich do you suppose it is?”
Dog shook his head.
“Hard telling. The blamed fool didn’t bother to save anything but big nuggets. No telling how much fine stuff there is.”
Red Leonard stuck his head out of the Ideal Cafe and called:
“Oh, Dog.”
* * * * *
Dog went over, Ducky trailing. Red Leonard handed Dog an envelope, addressed in a fair hand to Mr. Percival John Bigelow, kindness of restaurant man.
“That sissy kid left it with me, to hand to you after he’d gone.”
Dog tore open the letter, Ducky crowding for a look. They read:
Dear Uncle:
I had to have three hundred dollars. At first, I thought there really was gold in the creek, although it seemed strange that I found a nugget or more in the first shovelful and nothing after that all day. Of course, when I found that stick-pin nugget, with solder on the back of it, then I knew. So I broke up the nugget chain you gave me when I was a baby, and found nuggets for myself, just as easy. I had to have three hundred dollars.
Percival.
“What does he say?” yelled Red Leonard from the doorway.
Dog tore the letter, viciously, into very small pieces and heaved them into the wind. Then he steadied himself for an appropriate reply to Red Leonard.
“He says that he thanks Mr. Spence and me for the nice entertainment we provided for him during his stay in Montana, and when he gets back to New York, he’s going to tell all the folks there what a wonderful State Montana is.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 1925 issue of Blue Book magazine.]