Sure enough! Following a trail out from among the timbered slopes to the east, there emerged from the gap a white-topped —and another, and a succession of dots of other vehicles and of people horseback, until a long line was down through the green and brown. Yes, ! Charley had seen such , and even such a procession, before, in Missouri; but this was different, because these wagons and people had come clear across the 2,000 miles of plain and mountain and desert, from the Missouri River! Think of that!  
From their ditches and ravines out clambered the miners all, to wipe their brows and gaze and cheer. And on weaved the line, until the people afoot, also—even women, and some children—could be seen beside the wagons.
 
Riding at a walk, the horsemen who led the procession as if picking out the trail approached slowly, while the camp waited. The nearer the procession came, the worse for wear it looked: the white-topped wagons (there were only a few) were torn and , the other vehicles were only make-shifts, cut down from the originals, the horses, and oxen were very thin, and the people themselves were gaunt and and pitiable. As brown as any Arabs and as bearded as the miners were the leading horsemen.
 
"Howdy?" greeted one, with a nod. "How far to Sutter's?"
 
"Seventy miles," responded a score of voices. "Where you from?"
 
"The Missouri River."
 
"When did you leave?"
 
"Last week in April."
 
The first of the wagons came lumberingly creaking in. It was by two of lean oxen. The wheels had been wrapped with , for repairs, and the canvas top was torn and discolored and . From the front peered a woman and two children; the man of the family was walking wearily beside, swinging an ox-goad.
 
"Howdy, strangers?" he hailed, as he halted. "Are these the Californy diggin's?"
 
"Is this Californy?" put in the woman, quaveringly.
 
"You bet your bottom dollar, friends," was the answer. "This is Californy, and these are the Shirt-tail Diggin's, the best on 'arth."
 
"Haven't got any flour for trade, have you?" the man.
 
"Nary flour, nary anything for trade, stranger, but I'll give you a sack o' the best flapjack flour that ever came out a store."
 
"Hooray for the first woman in Shirt-tail Diggin's!" rose the cheer, and the crowd surged forward excitedly.
 
"No, strangers, I don't want your flour for nothin'," said the man, as if a little alarmed. "I'm for money, but I'll trade ye, and trade ye fair."
 
"Where's the gold? I'd like to see some gold," ventured the woman—a little alarmed at the .
 
"Pass the hat, boys," ordered the spokesman of the camp; he fished out his buckskin sack, shook a generous portion into the top of his old hat, and started the hat through the crowd. Somebody back with flour, somebody else with bacon; Shirt-tail camp fairly fought for the privilege of handing these and other supplies in, to the wagon, and there was added a buckskin sack half full of dust.
 
"Oh, we can't take these," appealed the woman, shrinking. She wasn't handsome, just now; she was thin, haggard and tanned, and wore a calico gown; but to the miners she was a woman, just the same, and Charley found himself wishing she were his mother.
 
"Take 'em! Throw 'em in, boys, anyway. They're for the first woman in Shirt-tail. Hooray! Hooray!"
 
"Charley Adams! Oh, Charley!" cried a voice, piercing the crazy clamor. Charley whirled and looked. It was—why, Billy Walker! Of course! Billy Walker! He had forgotten about Billy, for the moment—in fact, he hadn't recognized him.
 
But the remainder of the train had drawn near, bunching as it halted, and on foot Billy was hurrying through the crowd, followed by his father. Charley gave a of joy, and with a run he and Billy grabbed one another and hugged and danced. Then they drew off to shake hands; then Charley shook hands with Mr. Walker—and Mr. Adams shook hands with Billy and his father; then Charley and Billy grinningly sized one another up.
 
"You look like a sure-'nough miner," said Billy.
 
"And you look like a sure-'nough overlander," said Charley.
 
"What have you got? Have you found much gold? Are these the regular diggin's? How long've you been here? Have you made your pile? Were you any? Did it storm at sea? What's the name of this place? Where's the Sacramento? Did you stay in San Francisco? How much gold can I dig in a day?" Billy, all at once.
 
"I've found some gold—I've panned out half a sackful. We haven't been here long. Wasn't seasick a bit—scarcely. These are the Shirt-tail diggin's," replied Charley. "What kind of time did you have? Did you kill any Injuns? Do you have to go on? Why don't you stop now and mine? Is this all your crowd? Did you have a lot of fun? Do you want me to show you how to pan?"
 
", we had some fun, but we had an awful time, mostly," declared Billy, soberly. And he looked it. His shirt was torn and faded, his trousers were patched with buckskin, his boots were through and resoled with rawhide, the knife in his belt had been ground down to half a blade, and his rifle was scarred and the stock with rawhide at the grasp. Besides that, his face and hands were brown as brown, and scratched, he was thin as a rail, but his eyes were bright and steady and he evidently was as hard as nails. "We broke our wagon and lost our horses—they just fell down and died in their tracks—and had to leave half our out in the desert. But our company's first in; there are about 200 of us—and there are about 30,000 following, strung out all the way from here to the Rocky Mountains, I guess. That's a tough trail, across the desert from Fort Hall; but we made it, though the Digger Injuns 'most got our scalps, once. Part of the crowd's coming in by way of Oregon; and that's a harder trail still, we hear. Some of our own company, branched off, other side of the Sierra, for the Carson River, but we struck up the Truckee and over to the American River this way. Don't know what dad and I'll do now. We ought to get some grub and other stuff. I'd give ten dollars for a loaf of bread."
 
"Huh, I guess you would," retorted Charley. "Do you know what flour's selling at, in California? Sixty dollars a barrel. Besides, we don't eat bread, up here. We eat flapjacks."
 
"Jiminy!" sighed Billy, his mouth watering as he his dry lips. "That sounds good, just the same. Honest, I've been living on old ox so long I've nearly forgotten what flapjack tastes like. I used to have 'em back home, though. Remember those old Liz, our cook, made? Yum! Just the same," he added, , "I'm glad I came. I wouldn't have missed that trip for anything."
 
"You in along with us, and we'll give you all the flapjacks you can eat," urged Charley. "Dad can make the best you ever tasted. And I'll show you how to pan out the gold, too. Shucks! It's easy. Some days you'll just simply it up, and think you're going to be rich right away—and next day you won't find color, even. But it's fun. Wish you and your father would throw in with us. There's no use in going on down to Sacramento; prices of everything are awful, there, and at San Francisco, too. Ask him, won't you?"
 
But Billy didn't need to ask, for Mr. Grigsby had been introduced to Mr. Walker by Charley's father, and they three were talking together earnestly. The upshot was (to Charley's and Billy's delight) that the two parties joined.
 
"I've told Mr. Walker that we're on the search for a certain proposition," announced Charley's father, to his partner Charley, "and if we find it we'll probably need good help to develop it. And there's nobody we'd rather have in with us than him and Billy. Now if we five can't make our way, I'll miss my guess. What do you think about it?"
 
Think about it? Charley and Billy uttered another war-whoop, together, and in a hug gave a kick-up Indian dance—but Shirt-tail Diggin's was used to this sort of thing.
 
"I'd better out and see what I can add to the outfit," said Mr. Walker; and accompanied by Mr. Grigsby, away he went.
 
He succeeded in buying a horse from one of the emigrants, and in picking up here and there a few supplies. By the time that the horse and burro were packed, and the start might be made, the emigrant train also was again in motion, and the miners were again into their ravines and ditches. The great majority of the emigrants continued , bound for "the Sacramenty," there to renew their strength. A few stayed in camp at Shirt-tail. But a weary lot they all were—they and their animals; weary and seemingly bewildered now that they actually had arrived in the famed gold fields of California.
 
Mr. Grigsby set the pace, as usual, for his party. Straightaway he led, down the first ravine out of Shirt-tail, up the other side, and into a draw or pass which wound among the hills. The miners whom they passed, at work, gazed ; and one or two hailed with—"Where you bound, strangers? What've you heard? Another strike?" But the party only ............