said the best indication of small pockets
was an iron stain, but I could never get the run of miner's talk enough
to feel instructed for pocket hunting. He had another method in the
waterless hills, where he would work in and out of blind gullies and all
windings of the manifold strata that appeared not to have cooled since
they had been heaved up. His itinerary began with the east slope of the
Sierras of the Snows, where that range swings across to meet the coast
hills, and all up that slope to the Truckee River country, where the
long cold forbade his progress north. Then he worked back down one or
another of the nearly parallel ranges that lie out desertward, and
so down to the sink of the Mojave River, burrowing to oblivion in the
sand,--a big mysterious land, a lonely, inhospitable land, beautiful,
terrible. But he came to no harm in it; the land tolerated him as it
might a gopher or a badger. Of all its inhabitants it has the least
concern for man.

There are many strange sorts of humans bred in a mining country, each
sort despising the queernesses of the other, but of them all I found the
Pocket Hunter most acceptable for his clean, companionable talk. There
was more color to his reminiscences than the faded sandy old miners
"kyoteing," that is, tunneling like a coyote (kyote in the vernacular)
in the core of a lonesome hill. Such a one has found, perhaps, a body of
tolerable ore in a poor lead,--remember that I can never be depended on
to get the terms right,--and followed it into the heart of country rock
to no profit, hoping, burrowing, and hoping. These men go harmlessly mad
in time, believing themselves just behind the wall of fortune--most
likable and simple men, for whom it is well to do any kindly thing that
occurs to you except lend them money. I have known "grub stakers" too,
those persuasive sinners to whom you make allowances of flour and pork
and coffee in consideration of the ledges they are about to find; but
none of these proved so much worth while as the Pocket Hunter. He wanted
nothing of you and maintained a cheerful preference for his own way of
life. It was an excellent way if you had the constitution for it. The
Pocket Hunter had gotten to that point where he knew no bad weather, and
all places were equally happy so long as they were out of doors. I do
not know just how long it takes to become saturated with the elements so
that one takes no account of them. Myself can never get past the glo