We did not see the end of that night of gaining, for we were depressed, and hurried back to the gulch, running now and then between the long slopes, and up that stretch of trail which lay along the white surface of the river. But we heard of the outcome two nights later, when Kentucky came down to our cabin to learn if we had any news for him.
“I reckon you-all heard what happened after you left the Horn Spoon the other night?”
“No,” we chorused, looking at him.
“Well, that Sam Barstow sure had the devil's own luck from the minute he banged that queer-lookin' gold of his on the wheel. He broke the wheel in one turn, and Billy Abramsky pulled the cloth over it. Then he howled like a timber wolf with joy, and went back to the layout. He grabbed up that belt he had around him, put the gold back in it, buckled it under his shirt, and started in to play with what he'd got from the wheel. In just two hours he'd won his eight thousand back, and at seven in the mornin' he walked out of the Horn Spoon with eighteen thousand dollars of its money, and a bill of sale for the place.”
It was astonishing news, and our exclamations betrayed our surprise.
“Yes, sir, the Horn Spoon's got a new proprietor now. It's Sam Barstow, and he's runnin' the place. The boys that owned it are workin' for him. He hasn't got time. Too busy payin' his fond respects to Marie Devinne. I reckon, too, that he'll get her. He looks pretty good to her, with all the wad of dust he has, and with that red stuff that makes folks believe there might be plenty more where that came from. I reckon Sam Barstow's due to make a home stake.”
Kentucky was sitting with his elbows on his knees, and his moccasin heels up on the rungs of his stool, and his eyes looked thoughtfully at the little round hole in the end of the Yukon stove, that seemed to be watching him. I fancied I read a trace of homesickness in his boyish eyes, and a despondency that I had never before seen in them.
The country and its round of misfortune appeared to be telling on him. I was sorry that all our efforts had failed to develop any chance for him that was worth taking. All the ground worth leasing had been let out long before that time, and there were but few claims working where men were hired for day's wages. We tried to talk cheerfully to him, but he must have felt that we had nothing to offer, and that our encouragement was hollow, when he left us that night to tramp back up to his cabin at the head of the gulch.
It stands out, quite clear to me in the light of after events, the peculiar amazement I felt on the following morning. Yet in the telling it seems nothing.
I had got up early, it being my week to build the fire and cook the breakfast, a simple, primitive task; for our larder was scant as measured by civilized standards. It was still dark, and the candies, stuck in homemade brackets in the corner by the stove, writhed and twisted as the beat waves eddied upward, and the room was choked with the fumes of bacon frying, and desiccated eggs simmering on the back of the stove, and the blubbering of the oatmeal pot.
Dan threw his legs out of the bunk, gasping, and called sleepily: “Hey, Tom! Your bacon's going too hot. Give us a breath of air, can't you?”
I choked, and laughed, and went to the door and threw it open. Coming up the trail, far down the hillside, was a sled drawn by straining Malemutes, who looked like the wolves of death in that pallid hour. I stood with the frying pan in hand, looking at them when they stopped, and their driver turned up the trail leading to our cabin, leaving his team behind. He advanced until he was close to me.
“Chimoy!” I called the native greeting, and then, still in the tongue: “What do you want?”
He answered in English:
“Want moose meat?”
“Moose meat? Sure!”
It was like the voice of an angel, the proffer of any one offering fresh meat to men who had lived on tinned stuff and bacon for so many months. Dan came hurrying to the door with the strings of his moccasins dangling and trailing behind him, and his hair still ruffled.
“How much you take? Heap good meat, huh?” he called.
The visitor stood quietly for an instant, and then approached until he stood in front of us. I saw that he was not of any tribe with which I was familiar. There was less of the Oriental squattiness of face, less of the Oriental squattiness of figure. He was lithe and straight, and his nose was the high, fine, warrior nose of the red-Indian tribes—the nose of the hereditary fighter and hunter. His eyes were frowning, and with a certain defiant dignity.