We were not long in making our camp at the new diggings, or in getting to work to hunt for gold.  Being out for a syndicate, who naturally wanted something big in the way of a reef, we were precluded from the alluring search for alluvial, “specking,” as it is termed.

It seems the simplest thing in the world to find a good mine—­that is, as I said before, after you have found it!  On Sunday, February 17th, Paddy and I took a walk, and stepped right on to an outcrop of quartz showing beautiful gold.  Quite simple!  Any fool can prospect; all he wants is a little luck, and the strange inner urgings that make him examine a certain quartz reef or blow that others have passed, perhaps dozens of times, without happening to look in the right place!  Roughly marking out an area, to establish our prior claim to the ground amongst those already on the field, we returned to camp and gave Jim, who had been packing water from the granites, the joyful news.

On Monday before daylight we were out, and soon had eighteen acres marked off by a post at each corner, and our notices posted on a conspicuous tree, which we had been unable to do the day before, Sunday-pegging being illegal.

Fresh parties were now arriving daily, and the consequent demand for water made it necessary for Jim to camp at the rocks, and bring us a supply whenever he was able.

This was not accomplished without some trouble, for not only were the soaks we had dug with so much labour, made use of by the new-comers, which we did not object to, but our right to the water was often disputed by some who, with small regard for the truth, said that it was they who had sunk the wells!  Jim, however, was not the man to be bluffed, and, in spite of lameness from sciatica in the loins and hip, managed to keep us well supplied.  Short-handed already, we were further handicapped by Paddy smashing his thumb, and thus, for a time, I was the only sound workman of the party.

CHATTER VI

ALONE IN THE BUSH

By March 4th we were satisfied that the appearance of the mine was good enough to warrant our applying for a lease of the area already marked out.  So leaving Czar behind, to enable Paddy and Jim to pack water, I, riding Satan and leading Misery, loaded with specimens from the reef, set forth for Coolgardie, to apply for the lease, and get a fresh supply of provisions, of which we were sadly in need.  My departure for Coolgardie was taken advantage of by several who wished to bank their gold, and thus I became an escort.

Coolgardie lay almost due south, 220 miles on the chart, but nearly 300 miles by the track, which deviated from water to water.  Speed being an object, I decided to strike through the bush to George Withers’ hole.  Here, by the way, poor Alec Kellis had just been murdered by the blacks—­not the pleasantest of news to hear, as I started on my solitary journey.  I followed a horse pad for fifty-five miles, mostly through thick scrub, to Cutmore’s Well, where several parties were camped, who eagerly questioned me as to the richness of the new field.