Free Barkerville Gold by Dayle Gaetz

through the bushes beyond Prospector Man. Rusty’s eyes followed the sound until he caught a brief glimpse of a white beard and a wide-brimmed hat. What? Another Prospector Man? What was going on?
    This second man moved back and forth as if searching for something. Rusty pictured the map in his backpack, the one that showed an old miner’s cabin up this way, the same map they saw in Prospector Man’s campsite. Was Prospector Man hoping to find the cabin, just like he and Katie were? And who was the second bearded prospector?
    Rusty gasped. It had to be Three Finger Evans, still searching for his old cabin and his fortune in gold.
    A sudden movement caught Rusty’s attention. Prospector Man’s hand jerked up to his face. His entire body convulsed. He sneezed. Not loud, but enough. Everything stopped. Everyone held their breath.
    Three Finger’s ghost took off like a shot into the bushes, away from the sneeze. Rusty expected Prospector Man to chase after him, but instead, to his horror, the man pushed away from the tree trunk and swung around.
    He came barreling through the forest directly toward them.

10

Three Whiskey Bottles
    T hey ran. “Hey!” Prospector Man yelled. “Hey, you! Stop right there!”
    The steep, rough terrain and slippery rocks underfoot slowed them down. Behind Katie, Rusty forced himself to concentrate as he had never concentrated in his life before. He must not slip. If he fell here…
    Concentrate. He kept his eyes on Katie’s new white sneakers, watched them bounce from side to side over the slippery rocks. He stepped in the exact same spots and held his arms out from his sides, brushing the tops of overhanging bushes. If he slipped he would grab on and prevent himself from falling. Falling…tumbling feet first into a deep, dark tunnel. Cold and slimy. Unable to get out.
    Rusty shook his head. Concentrate. But he had lost precious seconds and now could no longer see Katie.
    â€œGet back here, you interfering little brats!” Prospector Man was so close, Rusty felt the ground tremble. The toe of a heavy boot crashed down solidly on his heel.
    â€œAAARGH!” It hurt so bad it brought tears to his eyes. Ignoring the pain, Rusty kept going. He stumbled. Something was wrong with his foot. Oh, man! His sneaker had slipped off his heel! He staggered around a sharp bend and caught a glimpse of red, low down, ahead and to his left; of blue to his right. He saw a thin straight branch lying across the trail. In that instant he knew. He had to reach that branch, cross over it and get out of the way. Fast.
    Almost there—right above it—footsteps at his heels. He threw himself forward, crashed against the ground and skidded. His elbows scraped over loose rocks, hurting, but he scrambled to his hands and knees and kept moving.
    â€œAIHHH!” Prospector Man’s angry yell filled the forest. It was followed by an ominous roar, like the rumble of an avalanche. Rocks clattered, and a string of swear words rose to the treetops.
    Katie and Sheila yanked Rusty to his feet. They ran.
    â€œQuick,” Sheila said when they reached the trail, “fix your shoe!”
    He bent down, yanked open the Velcro, slid his foot in properly, slapped the Velcro in place and ran, scarcely aware that his heel hurt with every step.
    They ran down and down until they reached the back road of the campground, where they stopped to catch their breath. Katie’s face was the color of a ripe tomato and, except for her brown freckles, Sheila’s was bright pink. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.
    â€œProspector Man is gonna be mad!” Katie warned.
    Rusty grinned. “The man should learn to watch where he’s going.”
    â€œWhat happened to you three?” Gram asked when they walked into their campsite. She and GJ were seated at the picnic table, across from one another, playing a game of cribbage.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”