Jim frowned. He knew that perfectly well. Now and again a feeling of self-reproach came, but he strangled it by reflecting upon the trick that had been played upon him. After all, he had bought her at her own price, and he meant to keep her.
Two or three of Dan’s lucky friends were scanning Jim’s enormous figure with obvious interest.
“Say, boys, ’member I told you about a husky guy at Medicine Bow who made a pile and sold out?”
“Sure!”
“Wal, this is him all right. Ain’t he a beaut?”
They shook hands with Jim and ordered more 131 whisky. Like Dan they were overburdened with money, and remarkably free with it. They were beguiling the time in innocent “jags” pending the arrival of the boat in the river that was to take them out of the Klondyke.
“Looking for a claim?” inquired one of them.
“Thet’s so.”
“Nothin’ doing this side of Blackwater, but there’s a dinky little creek five mile up-river. What do they call that creek where Dave staked, Whitey?”
“Red Ruin,” replied Whitey.