McTeague followed at a lumbering gallop. Over the scorched, parched
ground, stumbling and tripping over sage-brush and sharp-pointed rocks,
under the palpitating heat of the desert sun, they ran and scrambled,
carrying the quartz lumps in their hats.
"See any 'COLOR' in it, pardner?" gasped Cribbens. "I can't, can you?
'Twouldn't be visible nohow, I guess. Hurry up. Lord, we ain't ever
going to get to that camp."
Finally they arrived. Cribbens dumped the quartz fragments into a pan.
"You pestle her, pardner, an' I'll fix the scales." McTeague ground the
lumps to fine dust in the iron mortar while Cribbens set up the tiny
scales and got out the "spoons" from their outfit.
"That's fine enough," Cribbens exclaimed, impatiently. "Now we'll spoon
her. Gi' me the water."
Cribbens scooped up a spoonful of the fine white powder and began to
spoon it carefully. The two were on their hands and knees upon the
ground, their heads close together, still panting with excitement and
the exertion of their run.
"Can't do it," exclaimed Cribbens, sitting back on his heels, "hand
shakes so. YOU take it, pardner. Careful, now."
McTeague took the horn spoon and began rocking it gently in his huge
fingers, sluicing the water over the edge a little at a time, each
movement washing away a little more of the powdered quartz.
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