The location was rather attractive, on the whole. The clear stream of
water had coaxed a few quaking aspens and alders into being, among the
stunted evergreens. Grass lay greenly along the bank, a charming
relief to the eye. The sandy soil was almost level in the narrow cove,
which was snugly surrounded by hills, except at the lower extremity,
where the brook tumbled down a wide ravine.

Van, on his horse, gazed over towards the Indian reservation idly. How
vain, in all likelihood, were the wonderful tales of gold ledges lying
within its prohibited borders. What a madness was brewing in the camps
all around as the day for the reservation opening rapidly approached!
How they would swarm across its hills and valleys--those gold-seeking
men! What a scramble it would be, and all for--what?

There were tales in plenty of men who had secretly prospected here on
this forbidden land, and marked down wonderful treasures. Van looked
at his salted possessions. What a chance for an orgie of salting the
reservation claims would afford!

With his pony finally secured to a tree near at hand, the horseman
walked slowly about. A gold pan lay rusting, half filled with rock and
dirt, by a bench before the cabin. It was well worth cleaning and
taking away, together with some of the picks, drills, and hammers.

He carried it over to the brook. There he knelt and washed it out,
only to find it far more rusted than it had at first appeared. He
scooped it full of the nearest gravel and scoured it roughly with his
hands. Three times he repeated this process, washing it out in the
creek.