or picked up ore samples from the dump. He staked half
a dozen claims, marked their locations, and dug some new holes to test
the mineral. In December, when deep snows came, I left the region.

When I returned in the spring the snow lay deep and undisturbed about
the old cabin. Evidently Old Mac had got out before winter set in.
However, I shouted his name, more in the spirit of talking to myself
than of expecting a reply. I was surprised to hear a faint reply.
From inside the cabin came a creaking as though some one were getting
out of bed. Then the door opened and the old man, blinking owlishly,
stood before me. His long white hair was unkempt and tangled. He
yawned and stretched like a bear emerging from its winter hibernation.

"Came up to bring them papers?" he asked, expectantly. I recalled
then, when I last saw him in December, that he had asked to borrow some
Denver papers that contained information about the Reno gold rush. I
had forgotten about them. I explained and apologized.

"What sort of a winter have you put in?" I asked by way of diverting
him.

He looked at me in a sort of maze.

"Winter?" he mumbled perplexed. "It's sure settin' in like it meant
business. But I'm plannin' to start a tunnel--got a rich vein I want
to uncover--think come spring I'll have her where somebody'll want to
build a mill an'----"

"But you told me you were going to Reno," I recalled.

"Yep; I am, come spring," he earnestly assured me.

"Do you know the date?" I shot at him.

He looked at me sheepishly.

"No-o-o, don't reckon I do," he admitted, scratching his head and eying
me quizzically.

I waited.

"Must be about Christmas, ain't it?" he guessed at length.

It was the eighth of May!

Old Mac was a typical prospector. They are all queer, picturesque
characters, living in a world of golden dreams, oblivious to everything
but the hole they are digging, the gold they are sure to find. They
have a fanatical, unshakable, perennial faith in every prospect hole
they open, no matter how many have been false leads. They are
incorrigible optimists, the world's champion hopers. Unkempt,
unhurried, dreaming, confiding, trustful, superstitious, they wander
the length of the Rockies, seeking the materialization of their golden
visions. They are seekers, far more concerned with finding gold than
with digging it out. Like hunting dogs, their interest ceases with the
capture of their quarry.

They do not