"What was more, the news o' the Forty-Mile strike had reached the outside, an' the human buzzards was a-flockin' in. The Canadian authorities held the camps in a tight grip, but the trail was a No-Man's-Land. A sour-dough comin' out from a strike stood a good chance o' bein' plugged for his gold an' no one the wiser.
"A few weeks after the Forty-Mile strike, a rich placer had been located at Circle, a hundred miles lower down on the Yukon an' across the Alaskan Boundary jest above where Circle City is now. Nothin' was easier'n to buy a small row-boat an' float down the Yukon to Circle. The rapids wasn't worth speakin' about. At Circle we'd take the river craft runnin' to Fort Yukon, an' then ship on board the steamer for St. Michael, Skagway an' 'Frisco.
"No weary miles o' hoofin' it on the trail, no portages, no work, jest sit in a boat an' take it easy! That hundred thousand made me feel too lazy to move.
"We got the boat, bein' willin' to pay whatever fancy price was asked. While she was still tied up at Forty-Mile, one o' the North West Mounted Police come up an' asked us where we was headin'. We told him. He wanted to know how many were goin'. There was my pardner, Bull Evans, me, an' four more. He shakes his head.
"'That's about twenty too few,' says he. 'Are you takin' the dust along?'
"'Right with us, Johnny,' says we.
"'You've got more gold'n you have sense,' he comes back, cheerfully. 'Better wait a month or so. We're goin' to convoy a party through the White Pass to Skagway, takin' the express an' the bank gold, an' you can come along, safe.'
"'It's too long a trail for millionaires,' says we.
"'A dead millionaire ain't worth much,' he says. 'You'll have your bones picked clean by the crows if you get across the border that a-way. Alaska ain't the Dominion, not by a long shot.'
"That hit us wrong. We thought he was jest bluffin', tryin' to make out that Canada was the only country that could run things right. Most of us was from the U. S., an' we grouched at his pokin' in.