Bill nodded.
“An’ that’s why you split the outfit into two boats?”
“Sure.”
“Is he settin’ right out? You got to beat him on the river?”
There was sharp doubt in Chilcoot’s question.
Bill nodded again.
“Yes.” Then he laughed mirthlessly. “I got to beat it up that river as if all the legions of hell were hard on my heels. Say, boy, I got to beat the hardest trail man around the North, with a crazy eye running over levelled sights. I’ve got to beat him and I’ve got to beat the winter night. I just don’t know a thing how it’s to be done, but if I don’t do it I’ll have broke my fool word—which ’ud break me.”
Chilcoot’s gaze was turned up the river in the direction of the queer homestead whose simple dwellers had flung them their farewell as they passed down on their journey in the darkness.
“An’ that little gal, Bill,” he said slowly. “That little gal you reckon to take right out of here, an’ marry, an’ educate, an’ set around in a land of sunshine to raise your dandy kids. Ain’t ther’ a promise there that it’ll break you to fail in? Are you feelin’ like makin’ a great give-up for lousy scum of—Euralians? Are you?”
“There’s sure a promise there, boy, I’ll make good. If I don’t it’ll only be I’m dead.”