McCaskey retreated. Weakly at first he fought off his captor; then, as fear overwhelmed him, he became possessed of a phrenetic energy and struggled with the strength of two men. He struck, he bit, he clawed, he kicked. It was like the battle of a man with a beast—ferocious, merciless—while it lasted. They rocked about the cabin, heedless of the wounded man; the stove came crashing down and they trampled the pipe under their feet.
But McCaskey collapsed as suddenly as he had flown to action. When 'Poleon trussed him up he had neither strength nor spirit either for resistance or for resentment. He was as spineless as a wet sack. With anguished eyes he watched his captor lift Frank into a bunk and then proceed to do what remained to be done. Bleak of face, lifeless of voice, hopeless of expression, he answered the questions put to him and made no feeblest effort at concealment. He was, in fact, no longer capable of any resistance, mental or physical.
Frank died as the first ashen streaks of dawn came through the window and lit the sickly face of the brother who had slain him. There was no longer need of the rope; in fact, Joe implored his captor with such earnestness not to leave him alone that 'Poleon untied his hands, feeling sure that he was impotent. Joe followed him outside, and stood near by while he harnessed the dogs; he accompanied every step the woodsman took—wild horses could not have dragged him away in his present frame of mind—and finally, when they set out back toward the Canadian Line, he shambled along ahead of the team with head down and eyes averted from the gruesome bundle that lay in the sled. His punishment had overtaken him and he was unequal to it.
Dawson was in ferment, for the news of another "strike" had come in and a stampede was under way. Discoveries of gold, or rumors of them, had been common. The camp had thrilled to many Arabian Nights tales, but this one was quite the most sensational of all. So amazing, so unbelievable was it, in truth, that those who had been too often fooled laughed at it and declared it impossible on its face. Some woodcutters on the hills above El Dorado had been getting out dry timber for the drift fires, so ran the report, and in shooting the tree-trunks down into the valley they had discovered a deposit of wash gravel. One of them, possessed of the prospector's instinct, had gophered a capful of the gravel from off the rim where the plunging tree-trunks had dug through the snow and exposed the outcropping bedrock, and, to satisfy his curiosity, had taken it down to camp for a test. He had thawed and panned it; to his amazement, he had discovered that it carried an astonishing value in gold—coarse, rough gold—exactly like that in the creek pay-streak, except with less signs of abrasion and erosion. Rumor placed the contents of that first prospect at ten dollars. Ten cents would have meant the riches of Aladdin, but—ten dollars! No wonder the wiseacres shook their heads. Ten dollars to the pan, on a hilltop! Absurd! How did metal of that specific gravity get up there? How could there be wash gravel on the crest of a mountain? There was no sense to such a proposition.
But such old California placer miners as chanced to hear of it lost no time in hitting the trail. They were familiar with high bars, prehistoric riverbeds, and they went as fast as their old legs would carry them.
More faith was put in the story when it became known that the diggings were being deserted and that the men of El Dorado and Bonanza were quitting their jobs, actually leaving their thawed drifts to freeze while they scattered over the domes and saddles round about, staking claims. That settled matters, so far as Dawson was concerned; men who had dogs hitched them up, those who had none rolled their packs; soon the trail up the Klondike was black and the recorder's office prepared for riotous activity.
Those who had set out thus late met excited travelers hastening townward, and from them obtained confirmation. Yes, the story was true, more than true! The half had not been told as yet. Gold lay under the grass roots where anybody could see it; it was more plentiful than in the creeks—this was the richest thing ever known. "Frenchman's Hill," the discovery had been named, but all the ground for miles round about had been already staked and now men were going even further afield. It was well to hurry.
A frenzy took possession of the hearers, and they pressed on more rapidly. This was like the rush of the autumn previous, from Dyea to the Chilkoot, only here dogs flew under snapping lashes; pedestrians, when shouldered aside, abandoned their burdens and sacrificed all to speed. At the Forks the new arrivals scattered up over the hills, and that night road-houses, cabins, tents, were crowded; men slept on chairs, on floors; they stood around open fires.
Dawson awoke, on the second morning, to behold a long queue of fur-clad miners waiting outside the Gold Commissioner's office; the town took on an electric liveliness. This signified big things; it gave permanence; it meant that Dawson was to be the world's first placer camp. Business picked up, the saloons became thronged, on every corner knots of gossiping men assembled. There began a considerable speculation in claims on Frenchman's Hill; merchants planned larger stocks for the next season; the price of town lots doubled.
Late that afternoon through the streets ran a cry that took every foot-free man hurrying to the river-front. "Rock was coming!" In a jiffy the vantage-points were crowded. Sure enough, far down the Yukon two teams were approaching; with the smoke of Dawson in their nostrils they were coming on the run, and soon the more keen-eyed spectators announced that they could make out 'Poleon Doret. The lieutenant himself, however, was not in evidence. Instantly speculation became rife. Here was a sensation indeed, and when the second runner was identified beyond question as Joe McCaskey, excitement doubled. Where was Rock? Where was the other fugitive? What, in the name of all that was unexpected, had occurred?