Brent rose to his feet and held out his hand: "Good bye, Kitty," he said, gravely. "I know what you've done for me--and I won't forget it.

You'll come to see me--sometimes?"

"No. I hate you! An' if you could see yourself the way I see you--knowing what you are, and what you ought to be--you'd hate yourself!"

Brent flushed under the sting of the words: "I'm as good a man as I ever was," he muttered, defiantly.

The girl sneered: "You are--like h.e.l.l! Why, you ain't even got a job--now. You're a b.u.m! You hit the b.u.mp that I told you was at the end of your trail--now, where do you go from here?" And before Brent could reply she was gone.

"Where do I go from here?" he repeated slowly, as he sank into a chair beside his table, and swallowed a stiff drink of whiskey. And, "Where do I go from here?" he babbled meaninglessly, three hours later when, very drunk, his head settled slowly forward upon his folded arms, and he slept.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PLOTTING OF CAMILLO BILL

With the rapidly lengthening days the sodden snow thawed and was carried away by the creeks which were running waist-deep on top of the ice. New snow fell, lay dazzling white for a day or two, and then under the ever increasing heat of the sun, it, too, turned sodden, and sullen, and grey, and added its water to the ever increasing torrent of the creeks.

Bare patches of ground showed upon south slopes. The ice in the creeks let go, and was borne down by the torrents in grinding, jamming floes.

Then, the big river broke up. Wild geese and ducks appeared heading northward. Wild flowers in a riot of blazing color followed up the mountain sides upon the heels of the retreating snow-banks. And with bewildering swiftness, the Yukon country leaped from winter into summer.

From his little cabin Carter Brent noted the kaleidoscopic change of seasons, and promised himself that as soon as the creeks receded into their normal beds he would hit the gold trail. He ate little, drank much, and spent most of his days in reading from some books left him by a wandering Englishman who had come in overland from the North-west territories, where for a year or more he had prowled aimlessly among the Hudson's Bay posts, and the outposts of the Mounted. The books were, for the most part, government reports, geological, and geodetical, upon the Canadian North.

"She said I am a b.u.m," he muttered to himself one evening as he laid aside his book, and in the gathering darkness walked to the door and watched the last play of sunlight upon the distant glittering peaks.

"But, I'll show her--I'll show her where I'll go from here. I'm as good a man as I ever was." This statement that he had at first made to others, he now found necessary to make to himself. A dozen times a day he would solemnly a.s.sure himself that he was as good a man as he ever was, and that when he got ready to hit the trail he would show them.

The sunlight faded from the peaks, and as he turned from the doorway, his eyes fell upon his pack straps that hung from their peg on the wall.

Reaching for his hat, he stepped to the door and peered out to make sure that no one was watching. Then he stooped and fixed his straps to a half-sack of flour which he judged would weigh about fifty pounds. After some difficulty he got the pack onto his back and started for the bank of the river, a quarter of a mile away. A hundred yards from the cabin he stopped for breath. His shoulders ached, and the muscles of his neck felt as though they were being torn from their moorings as he pushed his forehead against the tump-line. With the sweat starting from every pore he essayed a few more steps, stumbled, and in clumsily catching his balance, his hat fell off. As he stooped to recover it, the weight of the pack forced him down and down until he was flat on his belly with his face in the mud. For a long time he lay, panting, until the night-breeze chilled the sweat on his skin, and he shivered. Then he struggled to rise, gained his hands and knees and could get no farther.

Again and again he tried to rise to his feet, but the weight of the pack held him down. He remembered that between the Chilkoot and Lake Lindermann he had risen out of the mud with a hundred pounds on his shoulders, and thought nothing of it. He wriggled from the straps and carrying, and resting, staggered back to his cabin and sank into a chair. He took a big drink and felt better. "It's the fever," he a.s.sured himself, "It left me weak. I'll be all right in a day or so. I'm as good a man as I ever was--only, a little out of practice."

After that Brent stayed closer than ever to his cabin until the day came when there was not enough dust left in his little buckskin sack to pay for a quart of hooch. He bought a pint, and as he drank it in his cabin, decided he must go to work, until he got strong enough to hit the trail. Houses were going up everywhere, houses of boards that were taking the place of the tents and the cabins of the previous year. Work there was a plenty, and the laborers were few. _Chechakos_ were pouring in by the thousands and staking clear to the mountain tops. But, none of them would work. Crazed by the lure of gold they pitted the hillsides and valleys and mucked like gnomes in their wild scramble for riches.

Brent worked for a week in a sawmill, and then quit, bought some hooch and some necessary food, and retired to his cabin to reread his reports and laugh at the efforts of the hillside miners.

The old timers were scattered out in the hills, and the tin-horns and _chechakos_ who had worshiped at his shrine were dispersed, or had forgotten him. Life moved swiftly in the big camp. Yesterday's hero would be forgotten tomorrow. And the name of Ace-In-The-Hole meant nothing to the newcomers. Occasionally he met one of the old timers, who would buy him a drink, and hurry on about his business.

Spasmodically Brent worked at odd jobs. He fired a river steamboat on a round trip to Fort Gibbon. Always he promised himself pretty soon, now, he would be ready to hit the trail. Stampedes were of almost daily occurrence, but Brent was never in on them and so the summer wore on and still he had not hit the trail. "I'll just wait now, for snow," he decided late in August. "Then I'll get a good dog team together, and make a real rush. There's no use hitting out with a poling boat, the creeks are all staked, and back-packing is too hard work for a white man. I'm as good a man as I ever was, and when the snow comes I'll show them."

Brent's wardrobe was depleted until it consisted of a coa.r.s.e blue jumper and ragged overalls drawn over underclothing, laced and tied together in a dozen places. He had not shaved for a month.

Later in October Camillo Bill came to his cabin. He stood in the doorway and stared into the dirty interior where Brent, with the unwashed dishes of his last meal shoved back, sat reading.

"h.e.l.lo, Camillo," greeted the owner of the cabin as he rose to his feet and extended his hand, "Come in and sit down."

Camillo Bill settled himself into a chair: "Well I'll be d.a.m.ned!" he exclaimed under his breath.

Brent rinsed a couple of murky gla.s.ses in the water pail, and reached for a bottle that sat among the dirty dishes: "Have a drink," he invited, extending a gla.s.s to his visitor.

Camillo Bill poured a taste of liquor into the gla.s.s and watched Brent, with shaking hand, slop out a half a tumblerful, and drink it down as one would drink water. He swallowed the liquor and returned the gla.s.s to the table.

"Take some more," urged Brent, "I've got another quart under the bunk."

"No thanks," refused the other, curtly, "I heard you was down an' out, but--by G.o.d, I wasn't lookin' for this!"

"What's the matter?" asked Brent, flushing beneath his stubby beard, "What do you mean?"

Righteous indignation blazed from Camillo Bill's eyes. "Mean! You know d.a.m.n well what I mean!" he thundered. "Look around this shack! Look in the lookin' gla.s.s up there! You're livin' here worse'n a dog lives!

You're worse'n a--a squaw-man!"

Brent rose to his feet, and drew himself proudly erect. Ragged and unshaven as he was, the effect was ludicrous, but Camillo Bill saw nothing of humour as he stared at the wreck of his friend. Brent spoke slowly, measuring his words: "No man--not even you can insult me and get away with it. I'm as good a man as I ever was, and I'll prove it if you'll step outside."

"You couldn't prove nothin' to n.o.body, noway. Kitty told me you'd gone to h.e.l.l--but, I didn't know you'd gone on plumb through."

Brent sank weakly into his chair and began to whimper: "I'm as good a man as I ever was," he sniveled.

"Shut up!" Camillo Bill's fist struck the table, "It makes me mad to look at you! You're a h.e.l.l of a lookin' object. You won't winter through. They'll find you froze some mornin' half ways between here an'

some saloon."

"I won't be here when winter comes. I'm going to hit the trail when snow flies, with a dog outfit."

"Where do you aim to go?"

"Over beyond the Mackenzie. Over in the Coppermine River country.

There's gold over there, and there aren't a million _chechakos_ gouging for it."

Camillo Bill roared with laughter: "Over beyond the Mackenzie! Picked you out the roughest an' the furtherest place to go there is. An'

nuthin' there when you get there--only you'd never get there. You ain't got the strength nor the guts to cross Indian River--let alone the Mackenzie. An' besides, where do you aim to get your outfit?"

"I'll work in the sawmill till I get enough, or anyone will grub-stake me--you will."

"I will--like h.e.l.l! An' no one else won't, neither. You'd never buy nothin' but hooch if they did."

A gleam of hope flashed into Brent's eyes: "Say," he asked, "How about my claims? You must have taken out your million by this time."

Camillo Bill smiled and his eyes never wavered as they met Brent's gaze: "Petered plumb out," he said, "That's what I come to tell you about.

They ain't an ounce left in 'em."

"Did you get yours?" asked Brent dully. "If you didn't, just let me know how much you are shy, and I'll make it good--when I make my strike, over beyond the Mackenzie."

This time the other did not laugh. His fists clenched, and he muttered under his breath: "All gone to h.e.l.l--puffed an' bloated, an' rotten with hooch--an' still square as a brick school house!" For a long time he sat silent, staring at the floor.

Brent poured himself another drink: "How much are you shy?" he repeated.

The words roused Camillo Bill from a brown study: "Huh?" he asked.

"I said, how much are you shy of that million?"

"Oh, I don't know yet. I ain't cleaned up the tailin' of the dump. It ain't goin' to be so far off, though. I'll let you know later." He got up and crossed to the door. "So long," he said, and without waiting for Brent's adieu, struck out at a fast walk for Stoell's where he found old Bettles and Swift.w.a.ter Bill drinking at the bar with Moosehide Charlie, who was telling of a fresh strike on a nameless creek to the westward.