“There it is, old friend,” he said in conclusion. “Usak, the husband of the murdered Pri-loo, never gave those folk the chance to use that map. He deliberately blinded the man and killed his son. And when I got wise from the map that this precious strike was on Caribou I got my big notion. I jumped for it right away and jumped right. This wonderful—Kid—with a face like— Say, I guessed right away at the start she was the ‘girl-child, white’ I was chasing up, and the rightful heir to her murdered father’s ‘strike.’ It was that closed up my mouth. I just couldn’t say a word. We—you boys—the whole outfit were on a gold trail looking to share in the stuff. And I knew that when it was located, by every sort of moral right an’ justice, it would belong to the Kid. And anyway she’d be entitled, an’ all her folks, to the first rake over of the claims. Ther’ could be nothing for you boys till her interest was safeguarded. See? She’s the daughter of Marty Le Gros, and was raised by that murdering Indian, Usak, who came right along the other night and threatened to clear us out of Caribou at the muzzle of a rifle that looked to have served an interior decoration for old Noah’s Ark. Can you beat it?”
Chilcoot shook his head helplessly. The story had lost nothing from his companion’s telling. He was well-nigh staggered at the hideous completeness of it all, and certainly amazed. His pipe had been forgotten until that moment, and he knocked the charred remains of tobacco out of it on a large flint lying nearby.
Wilder re-lit his pipe and smiled contentedly.
“Do you get what I reckon to do, Chilcoot?” he asked.
But the older man made no effort. He shrugged his broad shoulders.
“I’d say it ’ud be the sort of crazy stunt most folks wouldn’t reckon to find come out of the mighty clear head they guess stands on the shoulders of Bill Wilder.”
His words were accompanied by a deep-throated chuckle.
“Maybe that’s so, boy,” Wilder retorted without umbrage. “But anyway, it’s a stunt to suit my notion of honesty, and—yours. See? I sent Mike an’ the bunch off to get ’em right out of the way while we came along here. That’s all right. Our work’s just beginning. You an’ me we’re going to get right to it and test out this queer old canyon. We got the time before winter, if the thing’s what I guess it is. When we’ve located the stuff ther’s got to be the pick of the claims for that gal. An’ one each for Mrs. McLeod, at the farm, and her kids. Then we’ll pass right down to Placer and make the titles good with the Commissioner. After that— next Spring—we’ll turn the bunch loose on the ground, and they can grab how they please. How’s that? Does it go? Yes, sure it does. I know you. You and me, we can afford to cut right out and play the game to help these others along. That’s my crazy notion. Well?” Chilcoot rose to his feet. There was no doubt of his agreement. An almost child-like delight was stirring his rugged heart.
“Surely, Bill,” he said simply. “It’s good for me. But that murdering Indian. Does he come in?”
Wilder’s eyes suddenly sobered. He, too, scrambled to his feet. And for a moment he stood gazing thoughtfully down the shadowed ravine.