George Starkweather's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

George reached the creek by midday. The water ran clear over smooth stones. He knelt at the bank and dipped his mining pan into the current. Cold water splashed against his wrists. This was the place the map had marked—the starred fork where gold should settle. He swirled the pan and watched dark sand separate from lighter gravel. His chest tightened with each turn. Somewhere upstream, the Lost Angel Mine waited. This creek would lead him there. A shout echoed from downstream. George looked up and spotted three prospectors gathered around a tin folding stool. They sat on rocks while one man perched on the stool, waving his hands as he spoke. George packed his pan and walked toward them. These men worked the same creek—they'd know which forks ran dry and which ones showed color. He needed their knowledge. One prospector glanced up as George approached. The man on the stool stopped talking and nodded. George pulled out his tobacco pouch and offered it around. The men relaxed. This was how information moved between diggers—shared smokes, shared stories, shared hope. If anyone had seen gold traces upstream, they'd tell him now. The Lost Angel Mine was close. He could feel it.