A short distance above the mouth of a dry wash that emptied into the wide valley of Bonanza, Burr MacShane threw the last shovelful of gravel onto his dump and methodically kindled his fire on the iron-hard gravel at the bottom of his shallow shaft. An enormous malamute turned with a sneeze of disgust from his contemplation of the shaft as the acrid smoke filled his nostrils, and MacShane laughed: “Surprised as hell, ain’t you, Highball, that fire gives off smoke? Every day you stand there an’ get a noseful, an’ then down goes your tail an’ you sneeze out the smoke. You act like a fool pup--an’ you the best trail dog in the North!” At the words the tail of the great dog snapped erect, and rearing upward he placed two large forefeet upon the man’s chest. The ensuing tussle during which each tried to put the other in the snow was interrupted by the tiny tinkle of bells. Man and dog paused to watch an outfit pass the mouth of the wash far out on the trail. MacShane grinned: “Headin’ for Dawson,” he confided to the dog, “That’s the sixth one in three days, an’ the Lord knows how many that we didn’t see. An’ in a week or so they’ll be headin’ out again. Ain’t men fools, Highball? They ought to stay with the gravel.” That afternoon MacShane cut cordwood and from the vantage point of the rim saw three more outfits pull by. When it was too dark to see he descended to the cabin, built a roaring fire in the stove and proceeded to fill a tin boiler that had originally been a petrol can, with ice. “Kind of like to hear how the rest of ’em are makin’ it,” he muttered to himself while the ice melted. “I’d kind of like to know if any of ’em have struck bed rock. That’s what’s goin’ to tell the story of this strike: What’s on bed rock? This shallow gravel is sure shot full, but the real stuff will lay where it can’t work down any farther.”