“The Klondike was breakin' up,” Shorty concluded his recital, “an' we just had to wait for open water. Two polin' boats, six other men—you know 'em all, an' crackerjacks—an' all kinds of outfit. An' we've sure been a-comin'—polin', linin' up, and portagin'. But the falls'll stick 'em a solid week. That's where I left 'em a-cuttin' a trail over the tops of the bluffs for the boats. I just had a sure natural hunch to keep a-comin'. So I fills a pack with grub an' starts. I knew I'd find you a-driftin' an' all in.”
Smoke nodded, and put forth his hand in a silent grip. “Well, let's get started,” he said.
“Started hell!” Shorty exploded. “We stay right here an' rest you up an' feed you up for a couple of days.”
Smoke shook his head.
“If you could just see yourself,” Shorty protested.
And what he saw was not nice. Smoke's face, wherever the skin showed, was black and purple and scabbed from repeated frost-bite. The cheeks were fallen in, so that, despite the covering of beard, the upper rows of teeth ridged the shrunken flesh. Across the forehead and about the deep-sunk eyes, the skin was stretched drum-tight, while the scraggly beard, that should have been golden, was singed by fire and filthy with camp-smoke.
“Better pack up,” Smoke said. “I'm going on.”
“But you're feeble as a kid baby. You can't hike. What's the rush?”
“Shorty, I am going after the biggest thing in the Klondike, and I can't wait. That's all. Start packing. It's the biggest thing in the world. It's bigger than lakes of gold and mountains of gold, bigger than adventure, and meat-eating, and bear-killing.”
Shorty sat with bulging eyes. “In the name of the Lord, what is it?” he queried huskily. “Or are you just simple loco?”