going to hit the trail when snow flies, with a dog outfit."
"Where do you aim to go?"
"Over beyond the Mackenzie. Over in the Coppermine River country. There's gold over there, and there aren't a million chechakos gouging for it."
Camillo Bill roared with laughter: "Over beyond the Mackenzie! Picked you out the roughest an' the furtherest place to go there is. An' nuthin' there when you get there—only you'd never get there. You ain't got the strength nor the guts to cross Indian River—let alone the Mackenzie. An' besides, where do you aim to get your outfit?"
"I'll work in the sawmill till I get enough, or anyone will grub-stake me—you will."
"I will—like hell! An' no one else won't, neither. You'd never buy nothin' but hooch if they did."
A gleam of hope flashed into Brent's eyes: "Say," he asked, "How about my claims? You must have taken out your million by this time."
Camillo Bill smiled and his eyes never wavered as they met Brent's gaze: "Petered plumb out," he said, "That's what I come to tell you about. They ain't an ounce left in 'em."
"Did you get yours?" asked Brent dully. "If you didn't, just let me know how much you are shy, and I'll make it good—when I make my strike, over beyond the Mackenzie."
This time the other did not laugh. His fists clenched, and he muttered under his breath: "All