He had scarcely done so when the Right Bower, wheeling suddenly, set off in the direction of the creek.

The Left Bower, after a slight pause, followed without a word.
The Judge, wisely conceiving it better to join the stronger party, ran feebly after him, and left Union Mills to bring up a weak and vacillating rear.
Their course, diverging from Lone Star Mountain, led them now directly to the bend of the creek, the base of their old ineffectual operations.
Here was the beginning of the famous tail-race that skirted the new trader's claim, and then lost its way in a swampy hollow.

It was choked with debris; a thin, yellow stream that once ran through it seemed to have stopped work when they did, and gone into greenish liquidation.
They had scarcely spoken during this brief journey, and had received no other explanation from the Right Bower, who led them, than that afforded by his mute example when he reached the race.

Leaping into it without a word, he at once began to clear away the broken timbers and driftwood.
Fired by the spectacle of what appeared to be a new and utterly frivolous game, the men gayly leaped after him, and were soon engaged in a fascinating struggle with the impeded race.

The Judge forgot his lameness in springing over a broken sluice-box; Union Mills forgot his whistle in a happy imitation of a Chinese coolie's song.