When Bruce came out of the cañon, where he had a wider view of the sky, he saw that wicked-looking clouds were piling thick upon one another in the northeast, and he wondered whether the month was the first of November or late October, as Slim insisted. They had lost track somehow, and of the day of the week they had not the faintest notion.
There was always the first big snowstorm to be counted on in the Bitter Root Mountains, after which it sometimes cleared and was open weather for weeks. But this was when it came early in September; the snow that fell now would in all probability lie until spring.
At any rate, there was wood to be cut, enough to last out a week's storm. But, first, Bruce told himself, he must clean up the rocker, else he would lose nearly the entire proceeds of his day's work. The gold was so light that much of it floated and went off with the water when the sand was wet again, after it had once dried upon the apron.
Bruce placed a gold pan at the end of the rocker, and, with a clean scrubbing brush, carefully worked the sand over the Brussels-carpet apron, pouring water into the grizzly the while.
"That trip up the cañon cost me half a day's wages," he thought as he saw the thin yellow scum floating on the top of the pan.
Sitting on his heel by the river's edge, where he had made a quiet pool by building a breakwater of pebbles, he agitated and swirled the sand in the gold pan until only a small quantity remained, and while he watched carefully lest some of the precious specks and flakes which followed in a thick, yellow string behind the sand slip around the corners and over the edge, he also cast frequent glances at the peaks that became each moment more densely enveloped in the clouds.
"When she cuts loose she's going to be a twister," and he added grimly, as instinctively his eyes sought the saddleback or pass over which the ancient trail of the Sheep-eater Indians ran: "Those game hogs better pull their freight if they count on going out as they came in."
His fingers were numb when he stood up and shook the cold river water from them, turning now to look across for a sight of Slim.
"I've cut his share of wood all summer, so I guess there's no use quitting now. Turning pancakes is about the hardest work he's done since we landed on the bar. Oh, well"--he raised one big shoulder in a shrug of resignation--"we'll split this partnership when we get out of here. By rights I ought to dig out now."