“Reckon you figgered right, Jack,” said Red Pearce, and paused as if before a long talk, while he refilled his pipe.  “Sooner or later there’ll be the biggest gold strike ever made in the West.  Wagon-trains are met every day comin’ across from Salt Lake.  Prospectors are workin’ in hordes down from Bannack.  All the gulches an’ valleys in the Bear Mountains have their camps.  Surface gold everywhere an’ easy to get where there’s water.  But there’s diggin’s all over.  No big strike yet.  It’s bound to come sooner or later.  An’ then when the news hits the main-traveled roads an’ reaches back into the mountains there’s goin’ to be a rush that’ll make ‘49 an’ ’51 look sick.  What do you say, Bate?”

“Shore will,” replied a grizzled individual whom Kells had called Bate Wood.  He was not so young as his companions, more sober, less wild, and slower of speech.  “I saw both ’49 and ’51.  Them was days!  But I’m agreein’ with Red.  There shore will be hell on this Idaho border sooner or later.  I’ve been a prospector, though I never hankered after the hard work of diggin’ gold.  Gold is hard to dig, easy to lose, an’ easy to get from some other feller.  I see the signs of a comin’ strike somewhere in this region.  Mebbe it’s on now.  There’s thousands of prospectors in twos an’ threes an’ groups, out in the hills all over.  They ain’t a-goin’ to tell when they do make a strike.  But the gold must be brought out.  An’ gold is heavy.  It ain’t easy hid.  Thet’s how strikes are discovered.  I shore reckon thet this year will beat ‘49 an’ ‘51.  An’ fer two reasons.  There’s a steady stream of broken an’ disappointed gold-seekers back-trailin’ from California.  There’s a bigger stream of hopeful an’ crazy fortune hunters travelin’ in from the East.  Then there’s the wimmen an’ gamblers an’ such thet hang on.  An’ last the men thet the war is drivin’ out here.  Whenever an’ wherever these streams meet, if there’s a big gold strike, there’ll be the hellishest time the world ever saw!”

“Boys,” said Kells, with a ring in his weak voice, “it’ll be a harvest for my Border Legion.”

“Fer what?” queried Bate Wood, curiously.

All the others except Gulden turned inquiring and interested faces toward the bandit.

“The Border Legion,” replied Kells.

“An’ what’s that?” asked Red Pearce, bluntly.

“Well, if the time’s ripe for the great gold fever you say is coming, then it’s ripe for the greatest band ever organized.  I’ll organize.  I’ll call it the Border Legion.”

“Count me in as right-hand, pard,” replied Red, with enthusiasm.

“An’ shore me, boss,” added Bate Wood.

The idea was received vociferously, at which demonstration the giant Gulden raised his massive head and asked, or rather growled, in a heavy voice what the fuss was about.  His query, his roused presence, seemed to act upon the others, even Kells, with a strange, disquieting or halting force, as if here was a character or an obstacle to be considered.  After a moment of silence Red Pearce explained the project.