"You can't work your old dredges in the winter, anyhow, why don't you wait till spring."
"When spring comes I want to be in shape to begin throwing out the gravel the minute the ground thaws, and I don't want to be bothered building flume and railroad."
"But, dearest, the floor is so cold. We can't live in this house in the winter unless it is banked. All the neighbors have their houses banked three or four feet high, and if the ground freezes we'll never get it done."
Reeves' brow puckered into a frown: "That's right," he admitted, "Tell you what I'll do, I'll come down Saturday afternoon and stay over Sunday and bank it myself. Maybe I can find someone to help me. There's an old tramp that lives in a cabin a piece back from the river. One of my foremen has hired him three or four times, but he's no good—won't work more than two or three days at a stretch—he's a drunkard, and can't stay away from booze. Maybe, though, if I stay right on the job with him till it's finished I can get a day's work out of him—anyway I'll try."
Of the books left by the Englishman, the one
that interested Brent most was a volume from which the title page had long since disappeared as had the lettering upon its back, if indeed any had ever existed. It contained what appeared to be semi-official reports upon the mineral possibilities of the almost unexplored territory lying between the Mackenzie and Back's Fish River, but more particularly upon the Coppermine River and its tributaries. To these reports was added a monograph which treated exhaustively of the expeditions of Hearne into the North in search of gold, and also of the illfated expedition of old Captain Knight. This book held a peculiar fascination for Brent, and he read and reread it, poring over its contents by the hour as he dreamed his foolish dreams of some day carrying on Hearne's explorations to ultimate success.
Upon the night following the visit of Camillo Bill, Brent sat beside his dirty table, with his stinking oil lamp drawn near, and his favorite book held close to catch the sullen light that filtered through its murky, smoke blackened chimney. This night the book held a new interest for him. All along he had cherished the hope that when Camillo Bill should turn back his claims, there would still be a goodly amount of gold left in the gravel. But Camillo Bill said that the claims had petered out—and Camillo Bill was square. All that was left for him to do then was to hit for the Coppermine, and not so much for himself, for he stood in honor bound to see that Camillo Bill lost nothing through
cashing those slips and markers upon his assurance that the claims were worth a million.
The book settled slowly to Brent's lap, he poured a drink, and idly turned its pages, as his drunken imagination pictured himself mushing at the head of a dog team through those unknown wastes, and at the end of the long trail finding gold, gold, gold. He turned to the inside of the front cover and stared idly at the name penned many years ago. The ink was faded and brown and the name almost illegible so that he had to turn it aslant to follow the faint tracery. "Murdo MacFarlane, Lashing Water," he read, "I wonder where Lashing Water is? And who was this Murdo MacFarlane? And where is he now? Did he find Hearne's lost gold? Or, did he—did he—?" A loud knock upon the door roused Brent from his dreamy speculation.
"Come in!" he called, and turned to see Reeves standing in the doorway.