wrestle a hundred pound pack. It'll sap yer guts." But Brent laughed at the old man's warning, and the next evening took his place behind the layout with the cards spread before him.
As Stoell had predicted, Brent proved to be a great drawing card for the gambling house. Play at his layout ran high, and the table was always crowded. But nearly all the players were chechakos—men new to the country, who had struck it lucky and were intent upon making a big splash. Among these tin-horns and four-flushers, Ace-In-The-Hole was a deity. For among petty gamblers he was a prince of gamblers. Rumors and fantastic lies were rife at all the bars concerning his deeds. "He had cleaned up ten million in a summer on a claim." "He killed three men with three blows of his fist." "The Queen of the Yukon was all caked in on him, and he wouldn't have her. He tossed her a slip for half a million that he had won on a single bet at the wheel, and because she was sore at him, she ground it into the floor with her foot." "He had bet a million on an ace in the hole—hence his name. He had gambled away twenty million in a week." And so it went. Men fell over themselves to make his acquaintance that they might ostentatiously boast of that acquaintance at the bars. One would casually mention that "Ace-In-The-Hole says to me, the other day, he says—" Or, "I was tellin' Ace-In-The-Hole about one time I an' a couple of tarts down in 'Frisco—" Or, "Me an' Ace-In-The-
Hole was eatin' supper the other night, an' he says to me—" When he was off duty, men crowded to stand next to him at the bar, they plied him with drinks, and invited him to dine. All of which meant increased business for Stoell. So that upon several occasions when Brent was too drunk to attend to business, Stoell himself dealt his game and said nothing.
It was inevitable that this sudden popularity should in a measure turn Brent's head. Personally, he detested the loud-mouthed fawning chechakos, but as his association with them grew, his comradery with the real sourdoughs diminished. They did not openly or purposely cut him. They still greeted him as an equal, they drank with him, and occasionally they took a fling at his game. But there was a difference that Brent was quick to notice, and quick to resent, but powerless to dispel. He was a professional gambler, now—and they were mining men—that was all.
Only once since he had taken up his new vocation had he seen Kitty. She had come into Stoell's one evening, and slipping behind the table stood at his elbow until the end of the deal. As he shuffled the cards preparatory to returning them into the box, she placed her lips close to his ear: "Who are all your friends?" she whispered indicating the tin-horns and chechakos that rimmed the table. Brent flushed, slightly, and answered nothing. "So this is what you meant by hitting the trail when they
broke you, is it? Well, take it from me, it's a short trail, and a steep grade slanting down, and when you're on the toboggan it ain't going to take long to hit the bottom—with a bump." And before Brent could reply she had slipped away and lost herself in the crowd.
Night after night, although his eyes sought the crowd, he never saw her again, nor did he find her upon his excursions to "The Nugget," or to Cuter Malone's "Klondike Palace." If she were purposely avoiding him, she was succeeding admirably.
Along in February, Brent was surprised one day to receive, in his own cabin, a visit from Johnny Claw. "What do you want?" he asked as the man stood in the doorway.
Claw entered, closing the door behind him. He removed his cap and mittens, and fumbling beneath his parka, produced a sealed bottle of whiskey which he set upon the table: "Oh, jest dropped in fer a little visit. Been 'outside.' Try a shot of this hooch—better'n anything Stoell's got."
Brent sat down upon the edge of his bunk and motioned the man to a chair: "Didn't know you were so damned friendly with me that you would lug me in a bottle of hooch from the outside," he said, "What's on your chest?"