I was a college kid. Me and a few buddies were camping along the Yuba river near Downyville, CA. We looked across the river and saw a rock face with a doorway carved into it. We took off our shoes and socks and waded across. Slippery, cold.
When we got the mind door we opened it and stepped inside. We walked back maybe 30 feet. At the end we saw drill bits and football sized chunks of quartz rock. We each picked one up and turned to leave. When we stepped out into the sunlight there was an old guy there and a women who was some younger, but no fold out. The man held a shovel. The women said the mine was hers, she had inherited it and that she'd never been inside. The man told us to drop the rocks, and then he made a move to attack us with the shovel.
I was wearing a pistol on my hip. Not a big gun, a Ruger Bearcat that I'd paid $36 for the day I turned 16, which was how old you had to be to buy a pistol in Calif in those bygone days.
The man was taking aim at my buddy, the smallest guy, when the lady saw my gun, which I was still holstered. She said something to the old fellow and the matter changed immediately. All of a sudden I had the hammer. We dropped the rocks and waded back across and that was that.
If I had not packed that pistol? Well, who knows.
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