"There I rested a day, and fell into conversation with a young German, Al King by name, who told me he had spent all of last summer in prospecting on the coast, and had recently explored the region around Dalton's. He had taken a claim on a stream called Shorty Creek, about thirty miles away and somewhat to the west of the main trail, and thought a man could make about ten dollars a day there, working alone; but I have no doubt, from what he told me of the character of the gulch, that operations on a larger scale would pay extremely well, and I resolved to turn aside for a look at the place on my way north. I convinced myself that he had heard nothing of the rumors which had brought me into the region, and had not visited the spot to which I was going, and I thought it best to tell him nothing then, though I hope, if all goes well, to do him a good turn later. "After leaving Dalton's Post, we--that is, Long Peter and I--continued as far as Klukshu Lake, the point at which we were to turn from the main trail and make a flying trip over to Shorty Creek, which was about fifteen miles distant by the winter route, I should judge. "We were cooking our supper among the willows near the foot of the lake when we heard the sound of a gun toward the north, followed by a cry. We both jumped up and ran to the shore, in order to get a clear view up the lake. Half a mile away near the east bank we could see what was apparently a man lying on the ice, with a smaller person bending over him, while a dog was running and barking around the two. "On reaching the place, we found that the prostrate man was a young Indian of the Stik tribe, whose village lies near Dalton's Post. His younger brother, a lad of about fourteen, was with him. Long Peter recognized them both. "We saw at once that Lucky, the older one, had been shot. As we afterward learned, he had left his shot-gun standing against a log on the shore while he went out on the ice to fish. While he was cutting a hole, the dog upset the gun and discharged it, and poor unlucky Lucky had received most of the shot below the left knee. "His small brother, who was called Coffee Jack, was trying to stanch the flow of blood when we came up, and Lucky was quite coolly giving directions. I bound a handkerchief tightly about the wound, and we helped the unfortunate fellow to our camp, where we made him as comfortable as possible. On the following day, I succeeded in picking most of the shot out of his leg,--an operation which he bore with true Indian fortitude. Then came the question of what to do with him.