“_Hold on!_” The voice of Camillo Bill rang sharp as the crack of a dog whip. At the door the leaders paused, and as a man, the crowd whirled to face the speaker. Camillo Bill was standing, now, and the twisted smile had widened. The voice of Old Man Gordon cut the tense air thinly: “’Twas the hand of God rewardin’ me for tryin’ to bring the Philistine into the fold, even though I failed.” “It was the hand of Burr MacShane!” roared Camillo Bill, “Tryin’ to learn you to leave cards to them that knows somethin’ about ’em! You won’t wash no ten thousan’ out of yer first twenty pans, neither. You’ll wash thirty-seven hundred out of ’em--that’s what you’ll wash--besides what little was in the gravel before MacShane salted it.” “Salted it!” “What d’you mean--salted it?” “What in hell’s comin’ off here?” The crowd surged back, only this time Camillo Bill, and not Gordon, was the center of interest. “What are you talkin’ about?” “Speak up, can’t you?” “What in hell was MacShane doin’ saltin’ Gordon’s claim?” Camillo Bill’s eyes caught the eyes of Moosehide Charlie. For a moment their glances held, and in that moment, the latter seemed somehow to shrink back, as though he had suddenly divined what was passing in Camillo’s brain. “I would shrivel if I was you, Moosehide. But, MacShane ain’t holdin’ it against you. He’s too big a man fer that. It’ll learn you mebbe, not to go off half cocked, the same way it’ll mebbe learn Gordon that gamblin’ is gamblin’ whether it’s poker or cribbage.” He paused and allowed his eyes to sweep the crowd of faces before him. “Most of you thought like Moosehide, that the reason MacShane wanted to hit out for Gordon’s claim was so he could size up whether she was worth ten thousan’. Instead of that, he drops down into Gordon’s shaft, an’ he pulls out them sacks, an’ goes to work an’ salts every last speck an’ grain of the dust he win from Gordon back into the gravel. ‘It’s fer the woman an’ the little kid,’ he says, ‘They need it, an’ I don’t.’ That’s what he says. An’ then he says, ‘You don’t need to say nothin’ to nobody about this. Only don’t go bustin’ up here on no stampede if the old man claims he’s washed four or five hundred dollars to the pan.’” In the silence that followed, Moosehide Charlie started for the door. “Where you goin’, Moosehide?” called Camillo Bill. The other turned: “I’m headin’ fer MacShane’s,” he answered. “An’ I’m with ye!” cried Gordon, who had listened, open-mouthed, to the recital, “Losh, what a fool a man can make of himself onct he gets started!” “I’d ort to let you both go,” grinned Camillo Bill, “The trip would do you good. But, the fact is, MacShane ain’t out to his claim.” “Ain’t to his claim! Where is he, then?” “He’s hit the trail. He’s kissed the Yukon good bye. Last night while _chechakos_ like us was sleepin’ MacShane was a-borin’ a hole through the dark.” “Gone!” “Pulled out!” “An’ him takin’ out over a hundred dollars to the pan!” “Where’s he gone?”