“Plenty of time to sleep where I’m goin’,” laughed MacShane, “up there it’s _all_ night.” “Good luck to you, you damned old sourdough! If I ain’t here when you come back, your share will be in McCarty’s safe.” MacShane waved his hand, and after watching until he was swallowed up in the gloom, Camillo Bill opened the door and entered the Golden North where he was at once greeted by Moosehide Charlie: “Where’s MacShane?” he enquired. “He pulled out,” answered Camillo Bill, shortly. “Pulled out! Then, he never aimed to give Old Man Gordon a run fer his money?” “No, he didn’t.” “Did he go up an’ snoop around Gordon’s claim?” “Yup.” Moosehide sniffed contemptuously: “Ain’t that the damndest thing you ever seen a man do?” “It were.” “Well, I don’t know as I blame him none fer pullin’ back to his claim after the way he done--an’ that’s the way most of the boys looks at it. I don’t savvy it. If it be’n anyone else but MacShane! He’s counted the best man in the North. Bettles says the only way he kin figger it is that playin’ a lone hand as long as he has, it’s mebbe got to him, here.” Moosehide touched his forehead significantly with his finger. “Mebbe it has,” commented Camillo Bill, his eyes sweeping the room, “Where’s everybody?” “Most of ’em’s gone to bed,” Moosehide replied, “An’ I ain’t goin’ to be far behind ’em. Two nights hand runnin’ is a little too strong fer me. I got to sleep now an’ then.” “Me, too,” agreed Camillo Bill, and together they left the saloon. CHAPTER VI CAMILLO BILL AVERTS A STAMPEDE Late the following afternoon the festivities at the Golden North Saloon were once more in full swing. The moccasined feet of the dancers softly scraped the floor, there was not an empty chair to be had at the poker tables, and the crowd that encircled a certain table at the back of the room bespoke play of more than passing interest at the roulette wheel. Horse Face Joe clung with one hand to the bar and voiced in maudlin tones his desire that the other occupants of the room should each and several join him thither. The door swung violently open, and into this moil of frivolity burst Old Man Gordon, his eyes wide with excitement, his long woolen scarf trailing the floor in his wake, his coat open, and one mittened hand clutching in a vicelike grip a small mooseskin bag. So precipitous had been his entry that he had not stopped to remove his snow shoes, the tails of which dragged noisily across the wooden floor. “Shut the door!” “Was you raised in a saw mill?” “He was raised on a side hill where the doors shut theirselves!” These, and other railings from the assembled crowd fell unheeded upon Gordon’s ears. Someone else closed the door as the old man clattered to the bar.