Smoke woke up. A draught, that possessed all the rigidity of an
icicle, was boring into the front of his shoulder as he lay on his side
facing the wall. When he had been tied into the bunk there had been no
such draught, and now the outside air, driving into the heated
atmosphere of the cabin with the pressure of fifty below zero, was
sufficient advertizement that some one from without had pulled away the
moss-chinking between the logs. He squirmed as far as his bonds would
permit, then craned his neck forward until his lips just managed to
reach the crack.
"Who is it?" he whispered.
"Breck," came the answer. "Be careful you don't make a noise. I'm
going to pass a knife in to you."
"No good," Smoke said. "I couldn't use it. My hands are tied behind
me and made fast to the leg of the bunk. Besides, you couldn't get a
knife through that crack. But something must be done. Those fellows
are of a temper to hang me, and, of course, you know I didn't kill that
man."
"It wasn't necessary to mention it, Smoke. And if you did you had your
reasons. Which isn't the point at all. I want to get you out of this.
It's a tough bunch of men here. You've seen them. They're shut off
from the world, and they make and enforce their own law--by miner's
meeting, you know. They handled two men already--both grub-thieves.
One they hiked from camp without an ounce of grub and no matches. He
made about forty miles and lasted a couple of days before he froze
stiff. Two weeks ago they hiked the second man. They gave him his
choice: no grub, or ten lashes for each day's ration. He stood for
forty lashes before he fainted. And now they've got you, and every
last one is convinced you killed Kinade."
"The man who killed Kinade, shot at me, too. His bullet broke the skin
on my shoulder. Get them to delay the trial till some one goes up and
searches the bank where the murderer hid."
"No use. They take the evidence of Harding and the five Frenchmen with
him. Besides, they haven't had a hanging yet, and they're keen for it.
You see, things have been pretty monotonous. They haven't located
anything big, and they got tired of hunting for Surprise Lake. They
did some stampeding the first part of the winter, but they've got over
that now. Scurvy is beginning to show up amongst them, too, and
they're just ripe for excitement."
"And it looks like I'll furnish it," was Smoke's comment. "Say, Breck,
how did you ever fall in with such a God-forsaken bunch?"
"After I got the claims at Squaw Creek opened up and some men to
working, I came up here by way of the Stewart, hunting for Two Cabins.
They'd beaten me to it, so I've been higher up the Stewart. Just got
back yesterday out of grub."
"Find anything?"
"Nothing much. But I think I've got a hydraulic proposition that'll
work big when the country's opened up. It's that, or a gold-dredger."
"Hold on," Smoke interrupted. "Wait a minute. Let me think."
He was very much aware of the snores of the sleepers as he pursued the
idea that had flashed into his mind.
"Say, Breck, have they opened up the meat-packs my dogs carried?"
"A couple. I was watching. They put them in Harding's cache."
"Did they find anything?"
"Meat."
"Good. You've got to get into the brown canvas pack that's patched
with moosehide. You'll find a few pounds of lumpy gold. You've never
seen gold like it in the country, nor has anybody else. Here's what
you've got to do. Listen."
A quarter of an hour later, fully instructed and complaining that his
toes were freezing, Breck went away. Smoke, his own nose and one cheek
frosted by proximity to the chink, rubbed them against the blankets for
half an hour before the blaze and bite of the returning blood assured
him of the safety of his flesh.