Wildside by Steven Gould

Author:Steven Gould [Gould, Steven]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Tags: Science Fiction, Young Adult, Fantasy
ISBN: 9780765342461
Publisher: Tor Teen
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"I SAY PUSH IT."

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Marie landed the Maule into a fifteen-knot headwind, letting it slow to nearly thirty-five knots ground speed before touching down in the meadow. The brown grass quickly killed the rest of her speed, using less than two-thirds the length of our runway. She turned the plane and taxied back to where Clara and I waited, midway, near the cave and cache.

"Well, that wasn't too bad," Marie said, dropping to the ground. "Though you don't get nearly as much sleep when you have to split the watch two ways instead of four."

"Can't argue with that," I said. Clara let me sleep until Joey raised us on the radio, but I was still bunking in the morning light. "What's happening with Rick?"

Marie said, "Things are fine, apparently. We talked to him right before we took off. He's bored."

Joey looked around. "Well, is there any gold?"

I smiled. "Show him, Clara."

She held out a small Ziploc plastic bag and let it dangle. Its contents flashed in the sun. "I got this with the plastic gold pan this morning—in about twenty minutes right by our campsite while Charlie slept."

Joey hefted it. "Half an ounce, maybe?"

"Maybe."

"What was gold going for when we left?"

I'd been following the prices ever since we started the project. "The New York price was $392.50 a troy ounce."

"Oh," said Joey. "We'll have to get a lot more."

"We will," I said.

Even disassembled, it took all four of us to move the mechanical prospector to the stream's edge. We finished assembling it by one. "Who wants to get wet?" I asked.

"I'll start," said Joey. He put on the chest-high fishing waders we'd brought to work the water without freezing. While he did that, I fired up the gasoline engine and made sure the prospector was pumping water.

Joe picked up the six-foot length of PVC pipe clamped to the free end of the three-inch intake hose. "Where should I start?" he asked, shouting to be heard over the motor.

I pointed at the near bank. It was the inside bank of a curve in the stream, where slow water would drop gold dust.

Joey dragged the pipe over and thrust it down into the shallow water. The pump strained and there was a gush of clear water over the shaker trays, followed immediately by dark brown silty water laden with gravel. The water ran out of the discharge spout, splashed onto the rocks at the stream's edge, and then into the water. The silt immediately clouded the clear crystal water and moved downstream in a widening plume.

I shut the motor off.

Everyone looked at me, surprised.

"We need to move the prospector."

"Why?" asked Marie.

"We're dumping silt into the creek."

"Yeah. So?" said Joey.

Clara understood. "The trout, Joey. Remember the trout I told you about?"

"I don't understand. Every time it rains here, the runoff washes dirt into the stream—far more in minutes than we could do in days," Marie said.

"I don't know about that. We're going to be concentrating a lot of dirt on a little stretch of stream.

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