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from the narrow spoke wheels up through the coach, over the impossibly hard wooden seat and into his backside. By the end of a half hour he could hardly wait to get out. He could not imagine spending long hours, day after day, riding over rugged mountain trails on the narrow, rutted Cariboo Wagon Road in a contraption like this, just to reach Barkerville. People must have had tougher butts in those days, he decided and was wondering if they developed calluses when Gram touched his shoulder.
    â€œIf we hurry,” she said, “we can catch the mining demonstration down behind town by Williams Creek.”
    Rows of benches were set out in front of a tall Cornish waterwheel. A long flume, or wooden trough, ran high above their heads. Supported by tall posts, the flume diverted water from Williams Creek, which was higher up, to spill out directly above the waterwheel.
    Two young men wearing white shirts open at the neck, vests, long pants, tall leather boots and the inevitable hats stood beside the wheel, chatting quietly. One had a short thick beard, so dark it appeared almost black. The other had wide, light brown sideburns and a huge handlebar mustache that made Rusty think of a walrus.
    The mustached one walked over to stand in front of the benches, crowded with tourists. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “welcome to Barkerville, the largest community west of Toronto and north of San Francisco. Whether you made the long trek here by foot, on horseback or traveling by Barnard’s Express, I fear you are bound for bitter disappointment. Thousands have arrived before you only to realize the sad but unavoidable truth. Since the day ‘Dutch’ Bill Dietz first struck gold on Williams Creek up at Richfield, things have changed drastically. In this year of 1870, you can no longer stake out a claim on the creek and pan for your fortune in gold. Any gold that remains now lies buried deep beneath the gravel, below the blue clay, on bedrock. To reach it requires the digging of shafts deep underground, which means investing a great deal of money in equipment, such as this Cornish waterwheel and flume you see before you.”
    Rusty couldn’t take his eyes off the man’s mustache. Perched firmly on his upper lip, it wriggled sinuously up and down, forward and back, like a small animal as he talked. Rusty nudged Katie to see if she noticed.
    He hardly recognized his cousin. She had the sappiest expression on her face that he had ever seen. Her eyes remained on Mustache Man as she reached over to touch Sheila’s arm. This was too weird. Sheila had an identical expression on her face. “He’s so cute!” Katie whispered.
    Sheila sighed.
    Rusty gagged.
    He glanced around to see if anyone else was mesmerized by Mustache Man. That’s when he noticed someone seated at the far end of the very last bench. Red-and-black-checked shirt, vest, hat and dark sunglasses over a full white beard. In the harsh light of day, Rusty could not believe this was the ghost of Three Finger Evans. What did Katie call him? Prospector Man. Rusty nudged his cousin again. “He’s here.”
    â€œWho cares?” Katie sighed.
    â€œBut…you’re the one who wanted to follow him.”
    Katie turned slowly toward Rusty. Gradually her eyes cleared. She frowned. “What?”
    â€œProspector Man, from Wake-Up Jake’s. I thought you wanted to follow him. Don’t look, but he’s behind us at the end of the back bench.”
    Katie’s head swiveled around and jerked back again. “He’s watching us!” she whispered.
    â€œI told you not to look.”
    â€œSh!” Gram said from the bench directly behind.
    Rusty tried to concentrate as the two men explained how it all worked. The flume carried water from the creek, which fell on the wheel and made it go around, which made the pump work, which carried gravel and water out of the shaft to be placed in a sluice that