"No, you won't," said Britton. "You'll tell first, and then you may have the fire-water."
He dived into a small kitty-bag wherein he kept some few medicinal mixtures, whipped out the solitary flask, which he was accustomed to carry against a possible dire emergency of the rigorous trails, and held it enticingly before the candle flame.
The liquor sparkled in the light, and the poor red wretch smacked his lips and clawed at it. Rex held him off.
"Afterwards–afterwards," he said with decision.
"Ha!" exclaimed the tantalized Indian, "go heap long way up the White River–"
"The Klondike?" interrupted Rex.
"Yes, as you call, Mis'r," answered the Thron-Diuck, gesticulating frantically with lean, bony fingers like talons. "Go heap way up Klondike; find ice-hills with much frozen springs; there big gold where him be!" His claws pointed at the sample in Britton's fist.
"You mean the headwaters of the Klondike–its source?" questioned Rex, earnestly. "You're sure of that? For heaven's sake don't make any mistake!"
The Indian shook his whole body and stamped in anger.
"Me no mistake," he declared. "Me no lie. Go heap way up where you say, Mis'r, to–to–"