“Nope—earth. It’s froze right down for a hundred feet. Bed-rock ought to be three or four feet down. That’s where the gold is—or ought to be.”
“And if it isn’t there?”
“Sink another hole, an’ keep on doin’ it till I git it.”
Later in the day he reached bed-rock, at a depth of six feet from the surface. The washing-pan came into operation, and he sought eagerly for the golden dust—in vain.
“Muck!” he ejaculated.
The next pan, and the next, produced similar results. He commenced another hole about six feet from the first, driving through fallen trees and vegetable matter that had lain there for tens of centuries. When the evening came no sign of gold had appeared. He went to the tent and partook of the meal that Angela had prepared.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“Nope, but it’ll come. If not here, then somewhere 154 else. But there’s five hundred feet of frontage to be bored yet.”
Angela shrugged her shoulders. He talked as though time was of no importance. She knew he would go on and on until he had achieved what he set out to do. The summer was short—a brief four months. In October down would come the winter, freezing everything solid for eight long months. Between October 21 and November 8 the Yukon would close until the middle of May. She realized that she had, as yet, tasted but the latter end of winter. To live through the whole length of the Arctic night, away in the vast wilderness of the North, was a prospect that appalled her.
She wandered up the bank, and through the dense growth of hemlock that led to a precipitous hill. High up on its slope she stopped and surveyed the landscape. Despite the bitterness of her soul, she could not repress an exclamation of wonderment.