re the foot-prints of a smallish man, for his tracks,
in spite of his wearing over-shoes, were not so big as the prints made
by Joe's boots--though, as Joe himself remarked, that was not much to go
by, he being a six-footer with feet to match, "and a trifle over," as
his friends sometimes considerately assured him.

Following these foot-prints, we were led to the south gate, where, it
was easy to see, a horse had been standing for some time tied to the
gate-post.

"Well, he's got off with his samples all right," remarked my father.
"He's a smart fellow, and enterprising, too. He would deserve to win, if
only he were not so fond of taking the crooked way of doing things. Come
along. Let's get back to the house. There's nothing more to be done
about it at present."

CHAPTER VI

LONG JOHN BUTTERFIELD

"Boys," said my father next morning, "I've been thinking over this
discovery of ours. It won't do to wait till you've finished the
ice-cutting to notify Tom Connor. He has been a good friend to us, and I
feel that we owe him some return for enabling me to get this piece of
land from Yetmore, even though it was, in a manner, accidental; and as
Tom is sure to go off prospecting in the spring, whether or no, we may
as well give him the chance--if he wants it--to go hunting for this
supposed vein of galena."

"He's pretty sure to want to," said I.

"Yes, I think he is. And as Yetmore will certainly find out the nature
of the black sand, and will be sending out a prospector or two himself
as soon as the snow clears off, we must at least give Tom an equal
chance. So, instead of waiting for you to finish cutting the ice, I'll
write him a letter at once, telling him all about it, and send it up by
this morning's coach."

One of the advantages to us of the frosty weather was that the mail
coach between San Remo and Sulphide came our way instead of taking the
hill-road, so that during the winter months we received our mail daily,
whereas, through the greater part of the year, while the "forty rods"
were "bottomless," we had to go ourselves to San Remo to get it. The
coach, going up, passed our place about ten in the morning, and by it my
father sent the promised letter.

We quite expected that Tom would come flying down at once, but instead
we received from him next morning a reply, stating that he could not
leave his work, and asking my father to allow us boys to do a little
prospecting for him--which, I may say, w