Chapter VIII

THE PLOTTING OF CAMILLO BILL

With the rapidly lengthening days the sodden snow thawed and was carried away by the creeks which were running waist-deep on top of the ice. New snow fell, lay dazzling white for a day or two, and then under the ever increasing heat of the sun, it, too, turned sodden, and sullen, and grey, and added its water to the ever increasing torrent of the creeks. Bare patches of ground showed upon south slopes. The ice in the creeks let go, and was borne down by the torrents in grinding, jamming floes. Then, the big river broke up. Wild geese and ducks appeared heading northward. Wild flowers in a riot of blazing color followed up the mountain sides upon the heels of the retreating snow-banks. And with bewildering swiftness, the Yukon country leaped from winter into summer.

From his little cabin Carter Brent noted the kaleidoscopic change of seasons, and promised himself that as soon as the creeks receded into their normal beds he would hit the gold trail. He ate

"She said I am a bum," he muttered to himself one evening as he laid aside his book, and in the gathering darkness walked to the door and watched the last play of sunlight upon the distant glittering peaks. "But, I'll show her—I'll show her where I'll go from here. I'm as good a man as I ever was." This statement that he had at first made to others, he now found necessary to make to himself. A dozen times a day he would solemnly assure himself that he was as good a man as he ever was, and that when he got ready to hit the trail he would show them.

The sunlight faded from the peaks, and as he turned from the doorway, his eyes fell upon his pack straps that hung from their peg on the wall. Reaching for his hat, he stepped to the door and peered out to make sure that no one was watching. Then he stooped and fixed his straps to a half-sack of flour which he judged would weigh about fifty pounds. After some difficulty he got the pack onto his back and started for the bank of the river, a quarter of

After that Brent stayed closer than ever to his cabin until the day came when there was not enough dust left in his little buckskin sack to pay for a quart of hooch. He bought a pint, and as he drank it in his cabin, decided he must go to work, untilChechakos were pouring in by the thousands and staking clear to the mountain tops. But, none of them would work. Crazed by the lure of gold they pitted the hillsides and valleys and mucked like gnomes in their wild scramble for riches. Brent worked for a week in a sawmill, and then quit, bought some hooch and some necessary food, and retired to his cabin to reread his reports and laugh at the efforts of the hillside miners.

The old timers were scattered out in the hills, and the tin-horns and chechakos who had worshiped at his shrine were dispersed, or had forgotten him. Life moved swiftly in the big camp. Yesterday's hero would be forgotten tomorrow. And the name of Ace-In-The-Hole meant nothing to the newcomers. Occasionally he met one of the old timers, who would buy him a drink, and hurry on about his business.

Spasmodically Brent worked at odd jobs. He fired a river steamboat on a round trip to Fort Gibbon. Always he promised himself pretty soon, now, he would be ready to hit the trail. Stampedes were of almost daily occurrence, but Brent was never in on them and so the summer wore on and still he had not hit the trail. "I'll just wait now, for snow," he decided late in August. "Then I'll get

Brent's wardrobe was depleted until it consisted of a coarse blue jumper and ragged overalls drawn over underclothing, laced and tied together in a dozen places. He had not shaved for a month.

Later in October Camillo Bill came to his cabin. He stood in the doorway and stared into the dirty interior where Brent, with the unwashed dishes of his last meal shoved back, sat reading.

"Hello, Camillo," greeted the owner of the cabin as he rose to his feet and extended his hand, "Come in and sit down."

Camillo Bill settled himself into a chair: "Well I'll be damned!" he exclaimed under his breath.

Brent rinsed a couple of murky glasses in the water pail, and reached for a bottle that sat among the dirty dishes: "Have a drink," he invited, extending a glass to his visitor.

Camillo Bill poured a taste of liquor into the glass and watched Brent, with shaking hand, slop out a half a tumblerful, and drink it down as one would drink water. He swallowed the liquor and returned the glass to the table.

"Take some more," urged Brent, "I've got another quart under the bunk."

"No thanks," refused the other, curtly, "I heard

"What's the matter?" asked Brent, flushing beneath his stubby beard, "What do you mean?"

Righteous indignation blazed from Camillo Bill's eyes. "Mean! You know damn well what I mean!" he thundered. "Look around this shack! Look in the lookin' glass up there! You're livin' here worse'n a dog lives! You're worse'n a—a squaw-man!"

Brent rose to his feet, and drew himself proudly erect. Ragged and unshaven as he was, the effect was ludicrous, but Camillo Bill saw nothing of humour as he stared at the wreck of his friend. Brent spoke slowly, measuring his words: "No man—not even you can insult me and get away with it. I'm as good a man as I ever was, and I'll prove it if you'll step outside."

"You couldn't prove nothin' to nobody, noway. Kitty told me you'd gone to hell—but, I didn't know you'd gone on plumb through."

Brent sank weakly into his chair and began to whimper: "I'm as good a man as I ever was," he sniveled.

"Shut up!" Camillo Bill's fist struck the table, "It makes me mad to look at you! You're a hell of a lookin' object. You won't winter through. They'll find you froze some mornin' half ways between here an' some saloon."

"I won't be here when winter comes. I'm

"Where do you aim to go?"

"Over beyond the Mackenzie. Over in the Coppermine River country. There's gold over there, and there aren't a million chechakos gouging for it."

Camillo Bill roared with laughter: "Over beyond the Mackenzie! Picked you out the roughest an' the furtherest place to go there is. An' nuthin' there when you get there—only you'd never get there. You ain't got the strength nor the guts to cross Indian River—let alone the Mackenzie. An' besides, where do you aim to get your outfit?"

"I'll work in the sawmill till I get enough, or anyone will grub-stake me—you will."

"I will—like hell! An' no one else won't, neither. You'd never buy nothin' but hooch if they did."

A gleam of hope flashed into Brent's eyes: "Say," he asked, "How about my claims? You must have taken out your million by this time."

Camillo Bill smiled and his eyes never wavered as they met Brent's gaze: "Petered plumb out," he said, "That's what I come to tell you about. They ain't an ounce left in 'em."

"Did you get yours?" asked Brent dully. "If you didn't, just let me know how much you are shy, and I'll make it good—when I make my strike, over beyond the Mackenzie."

This time the other did not laugh. His fists clenched, and he muttered under his breath: "All

Brent poured himself another drink: "How much are you shy?" he repeated.

The words roused Camillo Bill from a brown study: "Huh?" he asked.

"I said, how much are you shy of that million?"

"Oh, I don't know yet. I ain't cleaned up the tailin' of the dump. It ain't goin' to be so far off, though. I'll let you know later." He got up and crossed to the door. "So long," he said, and without waiting for Brent's adieu, struck out at a fast walk for Stoell's where he found old Bettles and Swiftwater Bill drinking at the bar with Moosehide Charlie, who was telling of a fresh strike on a nameless creek to the westward.

Camillo Bill motioned the three to a small table, and when they were seated he ordered the drinks: "We got a job to do," he announced, plunging straight into his subject, "An' we got to do it thorough."

"Meanin' which?" asked Bettles.

"Meanin' to kidnap a man, an' hide him out fer a year, an' make him work like hell every minute he ain't sleepin' or eatin'."

"That sounds like a hell of a contrack," opined Swiftwater Bill. "Who's goin' to keep him workin', an' what at, an' what for?"

"For the good of his soul," grinned Camillo,

"Clear as mulligan," grinned Moosehide Charlie.

Camillo Bill looked into the faces of his companions: "Anyone saw Ace-In-The-Hole, lately?" he asked.

Bettles shook his head, and Swiftwater Bill spoke up: "I seen him about a month ago—bought him a drink. He's on the toboggan."

Moosehide Charlie broke in: "I ain't seen him since spring when he saved me from gettin' doped in Cuter Malone's. Cuter floored him with a bottle an' Kitty an' I got him home an' she looked after him till he got better. I give her a sack of dust to give him, but he wouldn't take it—throw'd it out in the snow, an' Kitty dug it out an' brung it back. If you all is figgerin' on gettin' up a stake fer him, let me in I'll go as high as the next."

Camillo Bill shook his head: "Nothin' doin' on the stake stuff. He wouldn't take it, an' if he did it would be the worst thing we could do to him. He'd blow it all in fer hooch. I went over to his cabin just now to turn back his claims. I've took out my million, an' only worked one of 'em. An' it ain't worked half out. They must be two or three million in 'em yet. Kitty told me the hooch had got him right—but she didn't tell it strong enough. He's in a hell of a shape, an' thinks he's as good a man as he ever was. He's dirty, an' ragged, an'

"I got the place to put him," said Swiftwater, "The claim's no good, but it's way to hell an' gone from here, an' there's a cabin on it."

"Just the ticket," agreed Camillo.

"We better send out quite a bunch of hooch. So he can kind of taper off," suggested Moosehide Charlie.

"Taper—hell!" cried Bettles, "If you taper off, you taper on agin. I know. The way to quit is to quit."

"We'll figger that out," laughed Camillo, "The

Old Bettles nodded: "He was a damn good man, onct."

"An' he'll be agin'!" exclaimed Camillo, "If he lives through it. His heart's right."

And so they parted, little thinking that when they would gather for the carrying out of their scheme, Brent would have disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed him up.