She wasn't even a "her"; she was a he, a great, awkward Swede
with mouse-colored hair and a Yon Yonsen accent--you know the kind--
slow to anger; slow to everything, without "j" in his alphabet--by
the name of Olaf Knutsen.
Now Olaf was a dreamer. Not the conventional sort of a dreamer, who
sees beauty in everything but an honest day's work, but a brawny,
pick-swinging dreamer who had dug holes in the ground at the end of
many rainbows. That he had never yet uncovered the elusive pot of
gold didn't seem to bother him in the least; for him, that tender
plant called Hope flowered perennially. And now he was bent on
following another rainbow; a rainbow which; arching over the
mountains, ended in that arid, pitiless waste known in the south
country as Death Valley.
He wouldn't fail this time. No, by Yimminy! With Dad's three burros,
and plenty of bacon and beans and water--it was to be a grub-stake,
of course--he would make both their fortunes. And the beautiful part
about it was, he did.
No doubt you have heard of the famous Golden Eagle mine. Well,
that's what Olaf and the three burros found in Death Valley. Good
old Olaf! He named the mine after Dad's livery-stable in San
Bernardino, and he insisted on keeping only a half interest, even
though Dad fought him about it.
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