“I’m not,” Wilder snapped, while his gaze remained steadily fixed on the face of the man beyond the fire. “Does it go, Mike?” he asked. “And does it cut out your kick? That’s the thing I’m looking for. You get the thing we’re looking for under my leadership, or I hand you haf a million dollars a present. Well?”
The Irishman raised a hand and thrust his fur cap back from his forehead. His amazement was almost ludicrous.
“Chilcoot’s right,” he blurted at last.
“He isn’t.”
“You—mean that?”
“Sure.”
The Irishman suddenly broke into a laugh of derision. “Well,” he cried, “Chilcoot’s witness.” Then he flung up his hands. “Say, I haven’t any sort of kick left in me. I don’t care a curse if you passed the night in that darnation shanty with an army of murderin’ spooks. Gee! Haf a million dollars. I’d hate to death a sight of that missioner’s ‘strike’ between now an’ next fall. Hand out your dope, Bill. You’re boss of this layout. Haf a million! Gee!”
Wilder nodded. He turned at once to Chilcoot. He shook his head with quiet confidence.
“I’m not crazy, boy,” he cried, in a tone of pleasant tolerance. “Do you mind our ‘strike’ back there on Eighty-mile in those days when we were worried keeping our bellies from rattling against our backbones? Get a look into this darn swamp and think back. It’s twin to Eighty-mile. The formation is like as two beans. The same mud, an’ granite, with the same queer breaks of red gravel miles on a stretch. Ther’s that. But ther’s more. That missioner lived right on this creek. It was his home country. And he wasn’t the boy to chase around on a prospect. If he made a ‘strike’ it was on home territory that was always under his eye. And you’ll mind he never mentioned Caribou in his yarns. He said Loon Creek, which is far enough to keep prying eyes from getting around the real location. Maybe he was wise for all they beat him. There it is anyway. I’ve got a mighty hunch for this creek.”
He turned again to the fire, and thrust out his hands.