"'Tis th' safe," he grinned. "Foire proof, an' bhurglar proof, too, av ye don't know th' combynation, fer wid th' little wedge in place, th' more ye pryze on th' rock th' toighter ut shticks."
Pushing the stone aside, the man reached into the interior and, one at a time, removed fourteen tin cans, which he carefully deposited upon the floor. Over the top of each, serving as a cover, and concealing the contents from view, was bound a piece of caribou skin, smoke-dried, with the hair on.
Connie reached for a can, but to his surprise it remained motionless as if nailed to the floor. It seemed incredible to the boy that such great weight could be encompassed within so small a space, and it was only at the expense of considerable effort that he succeeded in raising it to his lap. Cutting the thongs, he removed the cover and there, showing yellow and dull in the guttering flare of the blubber lamp, was gold! O'Brien spread an empty pack-sack and the boy poured the contents of the can upon it, and with his fingers levelled the golden pyramid. Before him lay nuggets, flat, dark flakes of "float," and bright yellow grains of "dust"—hand-shovelled, and hand-sluiced from the hot, wet sands of the Ignatook. Waseche Bill stared speechless at the row of skin-covered cans, at the pile of yellow metal, and back to the row of cans. For years this man had toiled and mucked among the placers of the gold fields, had sunk deep shafts, and shallow; had tunnelled, and drifted, and sloshed about in ice-cold muddy creek beds, but in all the years of toil and hardship and peril, he had never gazed upon a sight like this. Even Ten Bow, with its rich drift sands, was a barren desert in comparison with this El Dorado of the frozen waste.
"Nine thousan' dollahs a can—mebbe ten," he estimated, in an awed voice. "No wondeh Carlson came back!" He turned to O'Brien:
"How deep was his shafts?"
"Shafts!" exclaimed the Irishman, "sure, they ain't no shafts! Ye dam off a puddle av wather phwer uts shallow an' throw in a chunk av oice to cool ut, an' thin ye wade in an' shovel ut into ye're sluices."
"An' wateh the yeah around!" cried Waseche.
"Aye, an' no dumps to wor-rk out in th' shpring—ye clane up as ye go. Wan shovel is good f'r a can, or a can an' a half a month."
The idea of a man measuring his dust by the forty-pound can, instead of by the ounce, was new, and Waseche Bill laughed—a short, nervous laugh of excitement.