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“I don’t know whether I have or not,” said Bidwell. “It may be just a little spatter of gold.”

That night the whole range of foot-hills was noisy with voices and sparkling with camp-fires. From the treeless valleys below these lights could be seen, and the heavily laden trains of the San Luis Accommodation trailed a loud hallelujah as the incoming prospectors lifted their voices in joyous greeting to those on the mountainside.

“It’s another Cripple Creek!” one man shouted, and the cry struck home. “We’re in on it,” they all exulted.

Bidwell did not underestimate his importance in this rush of gold-frenzied men. He was appalled by the depth and power of the streams centering upon him. For weeks he had toiled to the full stretch of his powers without sufficient sleep, and he was deathly weary, emaciated to the bone, and trembling with nervous weakness, but he was indomitable. A long life of camping, prospecting, and trenching had fitted him to withstand even this strain, and to “stay with it” was an instinct with him. Therefore he built a big fire not far from the mine and spread his blankets there; but he did not lie down till after midnight, and only then because he could not keep awake, even while in sitting posture. “I must sleep, anyhow,” he muttered. “I can’t stand this any longer. I must sleep”–And so his eyes closed.

He was awakened by a voice he knew calling out: “Is this the way ye watch y’r mine, Sherm Bidwell?” And, looking up, he saw the Widow Delaney sitting astride a mule and looking down at him with tender amusement. “Ye are a pitcher; sure! Ye look like wan o’ the holy saints of ould–or a tramp. Help me off this baste and I’ll turn to and scorch a breakfast for ye.”

He staggered stiffly to his feet and awkwardly approached her. “I had only just dropped off,” he apologized.

“Ye poor lad!” she said, compassionately. “Ye’re stiff as a poker wid cold.”

“How did ye come out with the ore?” he asked.

“Thrust y’r Maggie! I saw it loaded into a car and sent away. Bedad, I had a moind to go wid it to the mill, but I says, Sherm nor mesilf can be in two places to wanst. So I gave o’er the notion and came home. They’ll thieve the half of it, av coorse, but so goes the world, divil catch it!”

The widow was a powerful reinforcement. She got breakfast while Bidwell dozed again, and with the influence of hot coffee and the genial sun the firm grew confident of holding at least the major part of their monstrous good luck.

“Thrust no wan but me,” said the widow in decisive warning. “The world is full of rogues. From this toime ivery man’s hand is agin’ y’r gold–schamin’ to reach y’r pockets. Rest yersilf and I’ll look after the gould. From this toime on we work only wid our brains.”

She did indeed become the captain. On her advice he sent a man for ore-sacks and tools, while other willing hands set to work to build a cabin to shelter them.

“We’re takin’ no chances,” she said; “we camp right here.”

That day Las Animas, Crestone, Powder Gulch, and Los Gatos emptied themselves upon the hills, and among them were representatives of big firms in Denver, Colorado Springs, and Pueblo. The path past the Maggie Mine was worn deep by the feet of the gold-seekers, and Bidwell’s rude pole barrier was polished by the nervous touch of greedy palms.

About ten o’clock a quiet man in a gray suit of clothes asked Bidwell if he wanted to sell. Bidwell said, “No,” short and curt, but Maggie asked, with a smile, “How much?”

“Enough to make you comfortable for life. If it runs as well as this sample I’ll chance fifty thousand dollars on it.”

Maggie snorted. “Fifty thousand! Why, I tuk twoice that to the mill last night.”