"Hivin be praised! we're there at last. Begob, it's mesilf that thought ye'd moved to the ind of nowhere. We're here, Scotty, me man. In ten howly minutes we'll have ye by the fire an' the docthor puttin' life into ye wid a spoon. Are ye there, Scotty?" But there was no movement in response. "Howly Mary! Give us a little more speed!" He stood up over his team, lashing and yelling till the tired beasts were going at full gallop. As he drew near the camp the sound of singing came on the driving wind. "Now the divil fly away wid the whiskey! It's pay day an'

the camp's loose. G.o.d send, there's a quiet spot to be found near at hand!"

Through the driving snow could be seen the dim, black outlines of the various structures of the pioneer town. First came the camp building, the bunkhouse, grub-house, office, blacksmith shop, and beyond these the glaring lights of a couple of saloons, while back nearer timber the "red lights," the curse and shame of railroad, lumber, and mining camps in British Columbia then and unto this day, cast their baleful lure through the snowy night.

At full gallop Tommy drove his bronchos up to the door of the first saloon and before they were well stopped burst open the door, crying out, "Give us a hand here, min, for the love o' G.o.d!" Swipey, the saloon-keeper, came himself to the door.

"What have you there, Tommy?" he asked.

"It's mesilf don't know. It wuz alive when we started out. Are ye there, Scotty?" There was no answer. "The saints be good to us! Are ye alive at all?" He lifted back the buffalo robe from the sick man's face and he found him breathing heavily, but unable to speak. "Where's yer doctor?"

"Haven't seen him raound," said Swipey. "Have you, Shorty?"

"Yes," replied the man called Shorty. "He's in there with the boys."

Tommy swore a great oath. "Like our own docthor, he is, the blank, dirty suckers they are! Sure, they'd pull a bung hole out be the roots!"

"He's not that way," replied Swipey, "our doctor."

"Not much he ain't!" cried Shorty. "But he's into the biggest game with 'Mexico' an' the boys ye ever seen in this camp."

"Fer the love av Hivin git him!" cried Tommy. "The man is dyin'. Here, min, let's git him in."

"There's no place here for a sick man," said the saloon-keeper.

"What? He's dyin', I'm tellin' ye!"

"Well, this ain't no place to die in. We ain't got time." An angry murmur ran through the men about the door. "Take him up to the bunk-house," said the saloon-keeper to Tommy with a stream of oaths.

"What d'ye want to come monkeyin' raound my house for with a sick man?

How do you know what he's got?"

"What differ does it make what he's got?" retorted Tommy. "Blank yer dirty face fer a b.l.o.o.d.y son of a sheep thief! It's plinty of me money ye've had, but it's no more ye'll git! Where'll I take the man to?" he cried, appealing to the crowd. "Ye can't let him die on the street!"

Meantime Shorty had found the doctor in a small room back of the bar of the "Frank" saloon, seated at a table surrounded by six or eight men with a deck of cards in his hand, deep in a game of "Black Jack" for which he held the pot. Opposite him sat "Mexico," the type of a Western professional gambler and desperado, his swarthy face adorned with a pair of sweeping mustaches, its expressionless appearance relieved by a pair of glittering black eyes. For nine hours the doctor had not moved from his chair, playing any who might care to chip in to the game. For the last hour he had been winning heavily, till, at his right hand, he had a heap of new crisp bills lately from the Bank of Montreal, having made but a slight pause in the grimy hands of the railroad men on their way to his. At his left hand stood a gla.s.s of water with which, from time to time, he moistened his lips. His face was like a mask of death, colourless and empty of feeling, except that in the black eyes, deep-set and blood-shot, there gleamed a light as of madness. The room was full of men watching the game and waiting an opportunity to get into it.

"The doctor's wanted!" shouted Shorty, bursting into the room. Not a head turned, and but for a slight flicker of impatience the doctor remained unmoved.

"There's a man dyin' out here from No. 2," continued Shorty.

"Let him go to h.e.l.l, then, an' you go, too!" growled out "Mexico," who had for the greater part of the evening been playing in bad luck, but who had refused to quit, waiting for the turn.

"He's out here in the snow," continued Shorty, "an' he's chokin' to death, an' we don't know what to do with him."

The doctor looked up from his hand. "Put him in somewhere. I'll be along soon."

"They won't let him in anywhere. They're all afraid, an' he's chokin' to death."

The doctor turned down his cards. "What do you say? Choking to death?"

He pa.s.sed his hand over his eyes. His professional instinct began to a.s.sert itself.

"Yes," continued Shorty. "There's somethin' wrong with him; he can't swallow. An' we can't git him in."

The doctor pushed back his chair. "Here, men," he said, "I'm going to quit."

A chorus of oaths and imprecations greeted his proposal.

"You can't quit now!" growled "Mexico" fiercely, like a dog that is about to lose a bone. "You've got to give us a chance."

"Well, here's your chance then," cried the doctor. "Let's stop this tiddle-de-winks game. You can't have up more than a hundred apiece.

I'll put my pile against your bets, there's three thousand if there's a dollar, and quit. Come on."

The greatness of the opportunity staggered them.

Then they flung themselves upon it. "It's a go!" "Come on!" "Give us your cards!" Quickly the cards were dealt. One by one the men made up their hands. The crowd about crushed in upon them in breathless excitement. Never had there been seen in that camp so reckless a stake.

"Now, then, show down," growled "Mexico."

The doctor laid down his cards face up. One by one they compared their hands. He had won. With an oath "Mexico" made a grab for the pile, reaching for his hip at the same time with the other hand, but the doctor was first, and before anyone could move or speak "Mexico" was lying in the corner, his toes quivering above his upturned chair.

"Look after the brute, someone. He doesn't understand the game," said the doctor with cool contempt, crumpling up the bills and pushing them down into his pocket. "Where's your sick man?"

"This way, doctor," said Shorty, hurrying out toward the sleigh. The doctor pa.s.sed him on a run.

"What does this mean?" he cried. "Why haven't you got him inside somewhere?"

"That's what I say, docthor," answered Tommy, "but the b.l.o.o.d.y haythen wudn't let him in."

"How's this, Swipey?" said the doctor sternly, turning to the saloon-keeper, who still stood in the door.

"He's not comin' in here. How do I know what he's got?"

"I'll take that responsibility," replied the doctor. "In he goes. Here, take him up on the robe, men. Steady, now."

Swipey hesitated a moment, but before he could make up his mind what to do, the doctor was leading his men with their burden past the bar door.

"Show us a room at the back, Swipey, upstairs. It must be warm. Be quick about it."

Swearing deep oaths, Swipey led the way. "It must be warm, eh? Want a bath in it next, I suppose."

"This will do," said the doctor when they reached the room. "Now, clear out, men. I want one of you. You'll do, Shorty." Without hurry, but with incredible speed and dexterity, he had the man undressed and in bed between heated blankets. "Now, hold the light. We'll take a look at his throat. Heavens above! Stay here, Shorty, till I come back."

He ran downstairs, and, bareheaded as he was, plunged through the storm to his office, returning in a few minutes with his medical bag and two hot-water bottles.

"We're too late, Shorty, I fear, but we'll do our best. Get these full of hot water for me."

"What is it, Doctor?" cried Shorty anxiously.

"Go quick!" The doctor's voice was so sharp and stern that before Shorty knew, he was half way downstairs with the hot-water bottles. With swift, deft movements the doctor went about his work.