“Don’t it beat Hell?”
The Irishman had listened to the story of the “strike” and sat raking his great fingers through the thick stubble of flaming beard he had developed, and grinned first across at his chief, Bill Wilder, then at the twinkling, deep-set eyes of Chilcoot.
They were all gathered about the fire, that centre of everything to the northern man. The youth Clarence was sprawled full length on the ground, happy in the thought that he was playing his part in the great game on which these men were engaged. He was content to listen while the others talked. But he drank in every word with the appetite of healthy youth, digesting and learning as his young mind so ardently desired.
“An’ it’s rich? Full o’ the stuff?” Mike’s lips almost smacked as he persisted.
“So full you’ll get a nightmare reckonin’ it.”
Chilcoot nodded while his eyes sparkled. Mike drew a deep breath. The two summers behind them looked like a happy picnic instead of the months of wasted endeavour they had seemed to his impetuous soul.
“Ther’s more than a hundred claims on it we know of,” Bill said soberly. “Maybe ther’s miles of it up that queer, crazy stream. We haven’t worried farther. The stakes are in fer the whole of our bunch, an’ the folks across the water. That’s as far as we’re concerned. We’re beating it to Placer to-morrow to register. Say,” he went on impressively, “ther’ll be a rush like the days of ’98, and we can’t take chances. If the thing’s like what I guess we’ll cheapen gold worse than the Yukon boom did. Does it hit you?”
“Between the eyes.” Mike laughed out of his boisterous feelings. “We ken get the bunch right down, an’ get a dump of stuff out before the freeze-up,” he went on eagerly. “What’s it to be? A pool or claim work?”
“Ther’s goin’ to be no pool. An’ ther’s goin’ to be no rake over till spring.” Wilder’s tone was decided, and the grin died out of the Irishman’s eyes. “I told you we’re takin’ no chances. Chilcoot and I have planned this thing right out. Of the three best claims we’re sure about, one is yours. But you don’t pan an ounce of soil till the register’s made, and you’ve got your ‘brief.’ Then it’s yours on your own, the same as the others belong to each of the other folk. An’ you can work how you darn please. But you won’t see the place, even, till we get right back from Placer. An’ the boys aren’t hearing a word of it till spring. It’s this I sent Clarence, here, up to get you around for. I want you to sit tight, right here, till we get back with the whole thing fixed. It’s worth waiting for, Mike. It’s so good you just haven’t figgers enough in your fool head to count your luck. You’ll act this way, boy. I promised you haf a million dollars if you hit back to Placer without a colour. That still goes, but you won’t need a thing from me. You’ll play our hand right?”
Mike’s disappointment was all the keener for his mercurial temperament, but he nodded readily and Wilder was satisfied.