saw any, except a few nuggets that an old squaw named Wananebish found years ago."
"On the Coppermine?" asked Brent.
Murchison laughed: "I don't know—an' she don't either. She found 'em, an' then her husband was drowned in a rapids and she pulled out of there and she claims she ain't never be'n able to locate the place since, an' she's spent years huntin' for it an' draggin' a little band of worthless Injuns after her. They're over there now, somewhere. I heard they hit up Hare Indian River, along about the first of September. McTavish at Good Hope, give 'em debt to be rid of 'em. But I don't think they'll find any gold. The formation don't seem to be right on this side of the river."
"Gold has been taken from the bottom of the sea, and from the tops of mountains," reminded Brent, "You know the old saying, 'Gold is where you find it.'"
"Aye," answered Murchison, with a smile, "But, east of the Mackenzie, gold is where you don't find it."
The four hundred mile journey from Fort Norman to the Coppermine was accomplished in sixteen days. A permanent camp-site was selected upon the west bank of the river, and the two worked with a will in constructing a tiny log cabin, well within the shelter of a thick clump of spruce. Brent's eyes had lost the last trace of muddiness, the bloated unhealthy skin had cleared, and his
flabby muscles had grown iron-hard so that he plunged into the work of felling and trimming trees, and heaving at logs with a zest and enthusiasm that had not been his for many a long day. He had not even thought of a drink in a week. When the cabin was finished and the last of the chinking rammed into place, he laughingly faced Joe Pete upon the trampled snow of the dooryard. "Come on now, you old leather image!" he cried, "Come and take your medicine! I owe you a good fall or two for the way you used me on the trail. You're heap skookum, all right, but I can put you on your back! Remember you didn't handle the butt ends of all those logs!"
And thus challenged the big Indian, who was good for his two hundred pound pack on a portage, sailed in with a grin, and for ten minutes the only sounds in the spruce thicket were the sounds of scrapping mukluks on the hard-trampled snow, and the labored breathing of the straining men. Laughter rang loud as Brent twice threw the Indian, rolled him onto his back, and rubbed snow into his face, and then, still laughing, the two entered their cabin and devoured a huge meal of broiled caribou steaks, and pilot bread.
Supper over, Joe Pete lighted his pipe and regarded Brent gravely: "On de trail," he said, "I handle you lak wan leetle baby. Now, you skookum tillicum. You de firs mans kin put Joe Pete on de back. De hooch, she no good for hell!"
"You bet, she's no good!" agreed Brent, "Believe me, I'm through with it. It's been a good while since I've even thought of a drink."