But they had not given up their fight.

Two blows were left in the struggle, and two blows they meant to strike before the end came.
The next morning they started at their new task, each drilling holes at points five feet apart in the hanging wall, to send them in as far as possible, then at the end of the day to blast them out, tearing away the rock and stopping their work at drilling that they might muck away the refuse.

The stope began to take on the appearance of a vast chamber, as day after day, banging away at their drill holes, stopping only to sharpen the bits or to rest their aching muscles, they pursued into the entrails of the hills the vagrant vein which had escaped them.
And day after day, each, without mentioning it to the other, was tortured by the thought of that offer of riches, that mysterious proffer of wealth for the Blue Poppy mine,--tortured like men who are chained in the sight of gold and cannot reach it.

For the offer carried always the hint that wealth was there, somewhere, that Squint Rodaine knew it, but that they could not find it.

Either that--or flat failure.