George left the saloon before dawn. The map stayed tucked inside his leather vest, pressed against his ribs. He carried his mining pan in one hand and a pickaxe in the other. The starred creek was three miles north, up where the canyon narrowed. His boots crunched through gravel as he walked. Cold air bit at his face. This was it—the first real step toward the Lost Angel Mine. The sun rose behind him as he reached the canyon mouth. George needed to mark his search area before he started digging. He dropped to one knee and dragged his pickaxe through the sand. A straight line appeared in the dirt, cutting across the path. He carved it deep so the wind wouldn't erase it. This marked the edge of his territory. Any gold north of this line belonged to him. He stood and brushed the sand from his hands. The creek waited somewhere ahead. Twenty years of searching had taught him one thing—start organized, stay focused, and the gold would show itself. George walked another mile before his legs burned. He spotted a flat rock and unrolled his bedroll across it. Dust puffed into the air. The fabric smelled like old canvas and sweat. He sat down and pulled the map from his vest. His finger found the starred creek again. The map showed two forks—one heading east, one west. He'd need to test both sections. Pan every spot where the water ran slow. That's where gold settled. He rolled the map back up and tucked it away. His heart hammered against his ribs. After all these years, he finally knew what to do first.

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.