Too Much Gold

by Jack London

This being a story--and a truer one than it may appear--of a miningcountry, it is quite to be expected that it will be a hard-luckstory. But that depends on the point of view. Hard luck is a mildway of terming it so far as Kink Mitchell and Hootchinoo Bill areconcerned; and that they have a decided opinion on the subject is amatter of common knowledge in the Yukon country.It was in the fall of 1896 that the two partners came down to theeast bank of the Yukon, and drew a Peterborough canoe from a moss-covered cache. They were not particularly pleasant-lookingobjects. A summer's prospecting, filled to repletion with hardshipand rather empty of grub, had left their clothes in tatters andthemselves worn and cadaverous. A nimbus of mosquitoes buzzedabout each man's head. Their faces were coated with blue clay.Each carried a lump of this damp clay, and, whenever it dried andfell from their faces, more was daubed on in its place. There wasa querulous plaint in their voices, an irritability of movement andgesture, that told of broken sleep and a losing struggle with thelittle winged pests."Them skeeters'll be the death of me yet," Kink Mitchell whimpered,as the canoe felt the current on her nose, and leaped out from thebank"Cheer up, cheer up. We're about done," Hootchinoo Bill answered,with an attempted heartiness in his funereal tones that wasghastly. "We'll be in Forty Mile in forty minutes, and then--cursed little devil!"One hand left his paddle and landed on the back of his neck with asharp slap. He put a fresh daub of clay on the injured part,swearing sulphurously the while. Kink Mitchell was not in theleast amused. He merely improved the opportunity by putting athicker coating of clay on his own neck.They crossed the Yukon to its west bank, shot down-stream with easystroke, and at the end of forty minutes swung in close to the leftaround the tail of an island. Forty Mile spread itself suddenlybefore them. Both men straightened their backs and gazed at thesight. They gazed long and carefully, drifting with the current,in their faces an expression of mingled surprise and consternationslowly gathering. Not a thread of smoke was rising from thehundreds of log-cabins. There was no sound of axes biting sharplyinto wood, of hammering and sawing. Neither dogs nor men loiteredbefore the big store. No steamboats lay at the bank, no canoes,nor scows, nor poling-boats. The river was as bare of craft as thetown was of life."Kind of looks like Gabriel's tooted his little horn, and you an'me has turned up missing," remarked Hootchinoo Bill.His remark was casual, as though there was nothing unusual aboutthe occurrence. Kink Mitchell's reply was just as casual as thoughhe, too, were unaware of any strange perturbation of spirit."Looks as they was all Baptists, then, and took the boats to go bywater," was his contribution."My ol' dad was a Baptist," Hootchinoo Bill supplemented. "An' healways did hold it was forty thousand miles nearer that way."This was the end of their levity. They ran the canoe in andclimbed the high earth bank. A feeling of awe descended upon themas they walked the deserted streets. The sunlight streamedplacidly over the town. A gentle wind tapped the halyards againstthe flagpole before the closed doors of the Caledonia Dance Hall.Mosquitoes buzzed, robins sang, and moose birds tripped hungrilyamong the cabins; but there was no human life nor sign of humanlife."I'm just dyin' for a drink," Hootchinoo Bill said andunconsciously his voice sank to a hoarse whisper.His partner nodded his head, loth to hear his own voice break thestillness. They trudged on in uneasy silence till surprised by anopen door. Above this door, and stretching the width of thebuilding, a rude sign announced the same as the "Monte Carlo." Butbeside the door, hat over eyes, chair tilted back, a man satsunning himself. He was an old man. Beard and hair were long andwhite and patriarchal."If it ain't ol' Jim Cummings, turned up like us, too late forResurrection!" said Kink Mitchell."Most like he didn't hear Gabriel tootin'," was Hootchinoo Bill'ssuggestion."Hello, Jim! Wake up!" he shouted.The old man unlimbered lamely, blinking his eyes and murmuringautomatically: "What'll ye have, gents? What'll ye have?"They followed him inside and ranged up against the long bar whereof yore a half-dozen nimble bar-keepers found little time to loaf.The great room, ordinarily aroar with life, was still and gloomy asa tomb. There was no rattling of chips, no whirring of ivoryballs. Roulette and faro tables were like gravestones under theircanvas covers. No women's voices drifted merrily from the dance-room behind. Ol' Jim Cummings wiped a glass with palsied hands,and Kink Mitchell scrawled his initials on the dust-covered bar."Where's the girls?" Hootchinoo Bill shouted, with affectedgeniality."Gone," was the ancient bar-keeper's reply, in a voice thin andaged as himself, and as unsteady as his hand."Where's Bidwell and Barlow?""Gone.""And Sweetwater Charley?""Gone.""And his sister?""Gone too.""Your daughter Sally, then, and her little kid?""Gone, all gone." The old man shook his head sadly, rummaging inan absent way among the dusty bottles."Great Sardanapolis! Where?" Kink Mitchell exploded, unable longerto restrain himself. "You don't say you've had the plague?""Why, ain't you heerd?" The old man chuckled quietly. "They-all'sgone to Dawson.""What-like is that?" Bill demanded. "A creek? or a bar? or aplace?""Ain't never heered of Dawson, eh?" The old man chuckledexasperatingly. "Why, Dawson's a town, a city, bigger'n FortyMile. Yes, sir, bigger'n Forty Mile.""I've ben in this land seven year," Bill announced emphatically,"an' I make free to say I never heard tell of the burg before.Hold on! Let's have some more of that whisky. Your information'sflabbergasted me, that it has. Now just whereabouts is thisDawson-place you was a-mentionin'?""On the big flat jest below the mouth of Klondike," ol' Jimanswered. "But where has you-all ben this summer?""Never you mind where we-all's ben," was Kink Mitchell's testyreply. "We-all's ben where the skeeters is that thick you've gotto throw a stick into the air so as to see the sun and tell thetime of day. Ain't I right, Bill?""Right you are," said Bill. "But speakin' of this Dawson-place howlike did it happen to be, Jim?""Ounce to the pan on a creek called Bonanza, an' they ain't got tobed-rock yet.""Who struck it?""Carmack."At mention of the discoverer's name the partners stared at eachother disgustedly. Then they winked with great solemnity."Siwash George," sniffed Hootchinoo Bill."That squaw-man," sneered Kink Mitchell."I wouldn't put on my moccasins to stampede after anything he'dever find," said Bill."Same here," announced his partner. "A cuss that's too plumb lazyto fish his own salmon. That's why he took up with the Indians.S'pose that black brother-in-law of his,--lemme see, Skookum Jim,eh?--s'pose he's in on it?"The old bar-keeper nodded. "Sure, an' what's more, all Forty Mile,exceptin' me an' a few cripples.""And drunks," added Kink Mitchell."No-sir-ee!" the old man shouted emphatically."I bet you the drinks Honkins ain't in on it!" Hootchinoo Billcried with certitude.Ol' Jim's face lighted up. "I takes you, Bill, an' you loses.""However did that ol' soak budge out of Forty Mile?" Mitchelldemanded."The ties him down an' throws him in the bottom of a polin'-boat,"ol' Jim explained. "Come right in here, they did, an' takes himout of that there chair there in the corner, an' three more drunksthey finds under the pianny. I tell you-alls the whole camp hitsup the Yukon for Dawson jes' like Sam Scratch was after them,--wimmen, children, babes in arms, the whole shebang. Bidwell comesto me an' sez, sez he, 'Jim, I wants you to keep tab on the MonteCarlo. I'm goin'.'"'Where's Barlow?' sez I. 'Gone,' sez he, 'an' I'm a-followin'with a load of whisky.' An' with that, never waitin' for me todecline, he makes a run for his boat an' away he goes, polin' upriver like mad. So here I be, an' these is the first drinks I'vepassed out in three days."The partners looked at each other."Gosh darn my buttoms!" said Hootchinoo Bill. "Seems likes you andme, Kink, is the kind of folks always caught out with forks when itrains soup.""Wouldn't it take the saleratus out your dough, now?" said KinkMitchell. "A stampede of tin-horns, drunks, an' loafers.""An' squaw-men," added Bill. "Not a genooine miner in the wholecaboodle.""Genooine miners like you an' me, Kink," he went on academically,"is all out an' sweatin' hard over Birch Creek way. Not a genooineminer in this whole crazy Dawson outfit, and I say right here, nota step do I budge for any Carmack strike. I've got to see thecolour of the dust first.""Same here," Mitchell agreed. "Let's have another drink."Having wet this resolution, they beached the canoe, transferred itscontents to their cabin, and cooked dinner. But as the afternoonwore along they grew restive. They were men used to the silence ofthe great wilderness, but this gravelike silence of a town worriedthem. They caught themselves listening for familiar sounds--"waitin' for something to make a noise which ain't goin' to make anoise," as Bill put it. They strolled through the deserted streetsto the Monte Carlo for more drinks, and wandered along the riverbank to the steamer landing, where only water gurgled as the eddyfilled and emptied, and an occasional salmon leapt flashing intothe sun.They sat down in the shade in front of the store and talked withthe consumptive storekeeper, whose liability to hemorrhageaccounted for his presence. Bill and Kink told him how theyintended loafing in their cabin and resting up after the hardsummer's work. They told him, with a certain insistence, that washalf appeal for belief, half challenge for contradiction, how muchthey were going to enjoy their idleness. But the storekeeper wasuninterested. He switched the conversation back to the strike onKlondike, and they could not keep him away from it. He could thinkof nothing else, talk of nothing else, till Hootchinoo Bill rose upin anger and disgust."Gosh darn Dawson, say I!" he cried."Same here," said Kink Mitchell, with a brightening face. "One'dthink something was doin' up there, 'stead of bein' a mere stampedeof greenhorns an' tinhorns."But a boat came into view from downstream. It was long and slim.It hugged the bank closely, and its three occupants, standingupright, propelled it against the stiff current by means of longpoles."Circle City outfit," said the storekeeper. "I was lookin' for 'emalong by afternoon. Forty Mile had the start of them by a hundredand seventy miles. But gee! they ain't losin' any time!"'We'll just sit here quiet-like and watch 'em string by," Bill saidcomplacently.As he spoke, another boat appeared in sight, followed after a briefinterval by two others. By this time the first boat was abreast ofthe men on the bank. Its occupants did not cease poling whilegreetings were exchanged, and, though its progress was slow, ahalf-hour saw it out of sight up river.Still they came from below, boat after boat, in endless procession.The uneasiness of Bill and Kink increased. They stole speculative,tentative glances at each other, and when their eyes met lookedaway in embarrassment. Finally, however, their eyes met andneither looked away.Kink opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him and his mouthremained open while he continued to gaze at his partner."Just what I was thinken', Kink," said Bill.They grinned sheepishly at each other, and by tacit consent startedto walk away. Their pace quickened, and by the time they arrivedat their cabin they were on the run."Can't lose no time with all that multitude a-rushin' by," Kinkspluttered, as he jabbed the sour-dough can into the beanpot withone hand and with the other gathered in the frying-pan and coffee-pot."Should say not," gasped Bill, his head and shoulders buried in aclothes-sack wherein were stored winter socks and underwear. "Isay, Kink, don't forget the saleratus on the corner shelf back ofthe stove."Half-an-hour later they were launching the canoe and loading up,while the storekeeper made jocular remarks about poor, weak mortalsand the contagiousness of "stampedin' fever." But when Bill andKink thrust their long poles to bottom and started the canoeagainst the current, he called after them:-"Well, so-long and good luck! And don't forget to blaze a stake ortwo for me!"They nodded their heads vigorously and felt sorry for the poorwretch who remained perforce behind.* * * * *Kink and Bill were sweating hard. According to the revisedNorthland Scripture, the stampede is to the swift, the blazing ofstakes to the strong, and the Crown in royalties, gathers to itselfthe fulness thereof. Kink and Bill were both swift and strong.They took the soggy trail at a long, swinging gait that broke thehearts of a couple of tender-feet who tried to keep up with them.Behind, strung out between them and Dawson (where the boats werediscarded and land travel began), was the vanguard of the CircleCity outfit. In the race from Forty Mile the partners had passedevery boat, winning from the leading boat by a length in the Dawsoneddy, and leaving its occupants sadly behind the moment their feetstruck the trail."Huh! couldn't see us for smoke," Hootchinoo Bill chuckled,flirting the stinging sweat from his brow and glancing swiftly backalong the way they had come.Three men emerged from where the trail broke through the trees.Two followed close at their heels, and then a man and a woman shotinto view."Come on, you Kink! Hit her up! Hit her up!"Bill quickened his pace. Mitchell glanced back in more leisurelyfashion."I declare if they ain't lopin'!""And here's one that's loped himself out," said Bill, pointing tothe side of the trail.A man was lying on his back panting in the culminating stages ofviolent exhaustion. His face was ghastly, his eyes bloodshot andglazed, for all the world like a dying man."CHECHAQUO!" Kink Mitchell grunted, and it was the grunt of the old"sour dough" for the green-horn, for the man who outfitted with"self-risin'" flour and used baking-powder in his biscuits.The partners, true to the old-timer custom, had intended to stakedown-stream from the strike, but when they saw claim 81 BELOWblazed on a tree,--which meant fully eight miles below Discovery,--they changed their minds. The eight miles were covered in lessthan two hours. It was a killing pace, over so rough trail, andthey passed scores of exhausted men that had fallen by the wayside.At Discovery little was to be learned of the upper creek.Cormack's Indian brother-in-law, Skookum Jim, had a hazy notionthat the creek was staked as high as the 30's; but when Kink andBill looked at the corner-stakes of 79 ABOVE, they threw theirstampeding packs off their backs and sat down to smoke. All theirefforts had been vain. Bonanza was staked from mouth to source,--"out of sight and across the next divide." Bill complained thatnight as they fried their bacon and boiled their coffee overCormack's fire at Discovery."Try that pup," Carmack suggested next morning."That pup" was a broad creek that flowed into Bonanza at 7 ABOVE.The partners received his advice with the magnificent contempt ofthe sour dough for a squaw-man, and, instead, spent the day onAdam's Creek, another and more likely-looking tributary of Bonanza.But it was the old story over again--staked to the sky-line.For threes days Carmack repeated his advice, and for three daysthey received it contemptuously. But on the fourth day, therebeing nowhere else to go, they went up "that pup." They knew thatit was practically unstaked, but they had no intention of staking.The trip was made more for the purpose of giving vent to their ill-humour than for anything else. They had become quite cynical,sceptical. They jeered and scoffed at everything, and insultedevery chechaquo they met along the way.At No. 23 the stakes ceased. The remainder of the creek was openfor location."Moose pasture," sneered Kink Mitchell.But Bill gravely paced off five hundred feet up the creek andblazed the corner-stakes. He had picked up the bottom of a candle-box, and on the smooth side he wrote the notice for his centre-stake:-THIS MOOSE PASTURE IS RESERVED FOR THESWEDES AND CHECHAQUOS.- BILL RADER.Kink read it over with approval, saying:-"As them's my sentiments, I reckon I might as well subscribe."So the name of Charles Mitchell was added to the notice; and manyan old sour dough's face relaxed that day at sight of the handiworkof a kindred spirit."How's the pup?" Carmack inquired when they strolled back intocamp."To hell with pups!" was Hootchinoo Bill's reply. "Me and Kink'sgoin' a-lookin' for Too Much Gold when we get rested up."Too Much Gold was the fabled creek of which all sour doughsdreamed, whereof it was said the gold was so thick that, in orderto wash it, gravel must first be shovelled into the sluice-boxes.But the several days' rest, preliminary to the quest for Too MuchGold, brought a slight change in their plan, inasmuch as it broughtone Ans Handerson, a Swede.Ans Handerson had been working for wages all summer at Miller Creekover on the Sixty Mile, and, the summer done, had strayed upBonanza like many another waif helplessly adrift on the gold tidesthat swept willy-nilly across the land. He was tall and lanky.His arms were long, like prehistoric man's, and his hands were likesoup-plates, twisted and gnarled, and big-knuckled from toil. Hewas slow of utterance and movement, and his eyes, pale blue as hishair was pale yellow, seemed filled with an immortal dreaming, thestuff of which no man knew, and himself least of all. Perhaps thisappearance of immortal dreaming was due to a supreme and vacuousinnocence. At any rate, this was the valuation men of ordinaryclay put upon him, and there was nothing extraordinary about thecomposition of Hootchinoo Bill and Kink Mitchell.The partners had spent a day of visiting and gossip, and in theevening met in the temporary quarters of the Monte Carlo--a largetent were stampeders rested their weary bones and bad whisky soldat a dollar a drink. Since the only money in circulation was dust,and since the house took the "down-weight" on the scales, a drinkcost something more than a dollar. Bill and Kink were notdrinking, principally for the reason that their one and common sackwas not strong enough to stand many excursions to the scales."Say, Bill, I've got a chechaquo on the string for a sack offlour," Mitchell announced jubilantly.Bill looked interested and pleased. Grub as scarce, and they werenot over-plentifully supplied for the quest after Too Much Gold."Flour's worth a dollar a pound," he answered. "How like do youcalculate to get your finger on it?""Trade 'm a half-interest in that claim of ourn," Kink answered."What claim?" Bill was surprised. Then he remembered thereservation he had staked off for the Swedes, and said, "Oh!""I wouldn't be so clost about it, though," he added. "Give 'm thewhole thing while you're about it, in a right free-handed way."Bill shook his head. "If I did, he'd get clean scairt and pranceoff. I'm lettin' on as how the ground is believed to be valuable,an' that we're lettin' go half just because we're monstrous shorton grub. After the dicker we can make him a present of the wholeshebang.""If somebody ain't disregarded our notice," Bill objected, thoughhe was plainly pleased at the prospect of exchanging the claim fora sack of flour."She ain't jumped," Kink assured him. "It's No. 24, and it stands.The chechaquos took it serious, and they begun stakin' where youleft off. Staked clean over the divide, too. I was gassin' withone of them which has just got in with cramps in his legs."It was then, and for the first time, that they heard the slow andgroping utterance of Ans Handerson."Ay like the looks," he was saying to the bar-keeper. "Ay tank Aygat a claim."The partners winked at each other, and a few minutes later asurprised and grateful Swede was drinking bad whisky with two hard-hearted strangers. But he was as hard-headed as they were hard-hearted. The sack made frequent journeys to the scales, followedsolicitously each time by Kink Mitchell's eyes, and still AnsHanderson did not loosen up. In his pale blue eyes, as in summerseas, immortal dreams swam up and burned, but the swimming and theburning were due to the tales of gold and prospect pans he heard,rather than to the whisky he slid so easily down his throat.The partners were in despair, though they appeared boisterous andjovial of speech and action."Don't mind me, my friend," Hootchinoo Bill hiccoughed, his handupon Ans Handerson's shoulder. "Have another drink. We're justcelebratin' Kink's birthday here. This is my pardner, Kink, KinkMitchell. An' what might your name be?"This learned, his hand descended resoundingly on Kink's back, andKink simulated clumsy self-consciousness in that he was for thetime being the centre of the rejoicing, while Ans Handerson lookedpleased and asked them to have a drink with him. It was the firstand last time he treated, until the play changed and his canny soulwas roused to unwonted prodigality. But he paid for the liquorfrom a fairly healthy-looking sack. "Not less 'n eight hundred init," calculated the lynx-eyed Kink; and on the strength of it hetook the first opportunity of a privy conversation with Bidwell,proprietor of the bad whisky and the tent."Here's my sack, Bidwell," Kink said, with the intimacy and suretyof one old-timer to another. "Just weigh fifty dollars into it fora day or so more or less, and we'll be yours truly, Bill an' me."Thereafter the journeys of the sack to the scales were morefrequent, and the celebration of Kink's natal day waxed hilarious.He even essayed to sing the old-timer's classic, "The Juice of theForbidden Fruit," but broke down and drowned his embarrassment inanother round of drinks. Even Bidwell honoured him with a round ortwo on the house; and he and Bill were decently drunk by the timeAns Handerson's eyelids began to droop and his tongue gave promiseof loosening.Bill grew affectionate, then confidential. He told his troublesand hard luck to the bar-keeper and the world in general, and toAns Handerson in particular. He required no histrionic powers toact the part. The bad whisky attended to that. He worked himselfinto a great sorrow for himself and Bill, and his tears weresincere when he told how he and his partner were thinking ofselling a half-interest in good ground just because they were shortof grub. Even Kink listened and believed.Ans Handerson's eyes were shining unholily as he asked, "How muchyou tank you take?"Bill and Kink did not hear him, and he was compelled to repeat hisquery. They appeared reluctant. He grew keener. And he swayedback and forward, holding on to the bar and listened with all hisears while they conferred together on one side, and wrangled as towhether they should or not, and disagreed in stage whispers overthe price they should set."Two hundred and--hic!--fifty," Bill finally announced, "but wereckon as we won't sell.""Which is monstrous wise if I might chip in my little say,"seconded Bidwell."Yes, indeedy," added Kink. "We ain't in no charity business a-disgorgin' free an' generous to Swedes an' white men.""Ay tank we haf another drink," hiccoughed Ans Handerson, craftilychanging the subject against a more propitious time.And thereafter, to bring about that propitious time, his own sackbegan to see-saw between his hip pocket and the scales. Bill andKink were coy, but they finally yielded to his blandishments.Whereupon he grew shy and drew Bidwell to one side. He staggeredexceedingly, and held on to Bidwell for support as he asked -"They ban all right, them men, you tank so?""Sure," Bidwell answered heartily. "Known 'em for years. Old sourdoughs. When they sell a claim, they sell a claim. They ain't noair-dealers.""Ay tank Ay buy," Ans Handerson announced, tottering back to thetwo men.But by now he was dreaming deeply, and he proclaimed he would havethe whole claim or nothing. This was the cause of great pain toHootchinoo Bill. He orated grandly against the "hawgishness" ofchechaquos and Swedes, albeit he dozed between periods, his voicedying away to a gurgle, and his head sinking forward on his breast.But whenever roused by a nudge from Kink or Bidwell, he neverfailed to explode another volley of abuse and insult.Ans Handerson was calm under it all. Each insult added to thevalue of the claim. Such unamiable reluctance to sell advertisedbut one thing to him, and he was aware of a great relief whenHootchinoo Bill sank snoring to the floor, and he was free to turnhis attention to his less intractable partner.Kink Mitchell was persuadable, though a poor mathematician. Hewept dolefully, but was willing to sell a half-interest for twohundred and fifty dollars or the whole claim for seven hundred andfifty. Ans Handerson and Bidwell laboured to clear away hiserroneous ideas concerning fractions, but their labour was vain.He spilled tears and regrets all over the bar and on theirshoulders, which tears, however, did not wash away his opinion,that if one half was worth two hundred and fifty, two halves wereworth three times as much.In the end,--and even Bidwell retained no more than hazyrecollections of how the night terminated,--a bill of sale wasdrawn up, wherein Bill Rader and Charles Mitchell yielded up allright and title to the claim known as 24 ELDORADO, the same beingthe name the creek had received from some optimistic chechaquo.When Kink had signed, it took the united efforts of the three toarouse Bill. Pen in hand, he swayed long over the document; and,each time he rocked back and forth, in Ans Handerson's eyes flashedand faded a wondrous golden vision. When the precious signaturewas at last appended and the dust paid over, he breathed a greatsigh, and sank to sleep under a table, where he dreamed immortallyuntil morning.But the day was chill and grey. He felt bad. His first act,unconscious and automatic, was to feel for his sack. Its lightnessstartled him. Then, slowly, memories of the night thronged intohis brain. Rough voices disturbed him. He opened his eyes andpeered out from under the table. A couple of early risers, or,rather, men who had been out on trail all night, were vociferatingtheir opinions concerning the utter and loathsome worthlessness ofEldorado Creek. He grew frightened, felt in his pocket, and foundthe deed to 24 ELDORADO.Ten minutes later Hootchinoo Bill and Kink Mitchell were rousedfrom their blankets by a wild-eyed Swede that strove to force uponthem an ink-scrawled and very blotty piece of paper."Ay tank Ay take my money back," he gibbered. "Ay tank Ay take mymoney back."Tears were in his eyes and throat. They ran down his cheeks as heknelt before them and pleaded and implored. But Bill and Kink didnot laugh. They might have been harder hearted."First time I ever hear a man squeal over a minin' deal," Billsaid. "An' I make free to say 'tis too onusual for me to savvy.""Same here," Kink Mitchell remarked. "Minin' deals is like horse-tradin'."They were honest in their wonderment. They could not conceive ofthemselves raising a wail over a business transaction, so theycould not understand it in another man."The poor, ornery chechaquo," murmured Hootchinoo Bill, as theywatched the sorrowing Swede disappear up the trail."But this ain't Too Much Gold," Kink Mitchell said cheerfully.And ere the day was out they purchased flour and bacon atexorbitant prices with Ans Handerson's dust and crossed over thedivide in the direction of the creeks that lie between Klondike andIndian River.Three months later they came back over the divide in the midst of asnow-storm and dropped down the trail to 24 ELDORADO. It merelychanced that the trail led them that way. They were not lookingfor the claim. Nor could they see much through the driving whitetill they set foot upon the claim itself. And then the airlightened, and they beheld a dump, capped by a windlass that a manwas turning. They saw him draw a bucket of gravel from the holeand tilt it on the edge of the dump. Likewise they saw another,man, strangely familiar, filling a pan with the fresh gravel. Hishands were large; his hair wets pale yellow. But before theyreached him, he turned with the pan and fled toward a cabin. Hewore no hat, and the snow falling down his neck accounted for hishaste. Bill and Kink ran after him, and came upon him in thecabin, kneeling by the stove and washing the pan of gravel in a tubof water.He was too deeply engaged to notice more than that somebody hadentered the cabin. They stood at his shoulder and looked on. Heimparted to the pan a deft circular motion, pausing once or twiceto rake out the larger particles of gravel with his fingers. Thewater was muddy, and, with the pan buried in it, they could seenothing of its contents. Suddenly he lifted the pan clear and sentthe water out of it with a flirt. A mass of yellow, like butter ina churn, showed across the bottom.Hootchinoo Bill swallowed. Never in his life had he dreamed of sorich a test-pan."Kind of thick, my friend," he said huskily. "How much might youreckon that-all to be?"Ans Handerson did not look up as he replied, "Ay tank faftyounces.""You must be scrumptious rich, then, eh?"Still Ans Handerson kept his head down, absorbed in putting in thefine touches which wash out the last particles of dross, though heanswered, "Ay tank Ay ban wort' five hundred t'ousand dollar.""Gosh!" said Hootchinoo Bill, and he said it reverently."Yes, Bill, gosh!" said Kink Mitchell; and they went out softly andclosed the door.

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