“No, it ain’t, there’s plenty of room there yet. They ain’t so many of us up here, you know. It ain’t like the Yukon. The _chechakos_ an’ the riff-raff don’t hit Coldfoot. This here country is a heap too _skookum_ fer their blood. Bettles catches about the last of them, an’ they don’t stay there long. They hit back to the Yukon where they got more chanct of winterin’ through. They ain’t got no guts fer the long night an’ the strong cold. This here is a man’s country.” “An’ Myrtle Crick,” persisted Gordon, “Is there timber for cabin logs?” “Yes, plenty timber for cabin logs. It ain’t what you’d call big timber or nothin’, an’ it’s kind of scatterin’ like, but you’ll find patches here an’ there that’ll do. Now, how about your outfit?” “I’ll be needin’ grub,” answered Gordon, “The rest I brought with me. I came up from the Yukon in a polin’ boat.” “In a polin’ boat!” exclaimed the trader, “Alone!” Gordon smiled: “No, there’s three of us, my wife an’ daughter.” “Wife an’ daughter! An’ come clean up from the Yukon in a polin’ boat!” “Aye,” answered Gordon, “’Twas a considerable chore.” “An’ he calls it a chore,” muttered the trader, “Like feedin’ the dogs, or cuttin’ firewood! An’ a hell of a lot of ’em thinks they be’n somewhere’s when they come up to Bettles on the steamboat an’ shove a polin’ boat the rest of the way!” He suddenly thrust out his hand, “Crim’s my name, old timer, an’ I’m proud to meet you. The boys’ll all be proud to know you, here on the Koyukuk. You’re our kind.” “Mine’s Gordon,” replied the Scotchman, and for the next hour Gordon and Crim were busy with the grub list. When the last item had been stacked up and the list checked, Gordon drew out his gold sack. “We thought prices was high in Dawson,” he said, as he balanced the sack in his hand, “But nothin’ as high as here.” “No. Coldfoot’s the farthest north gold camp in the world, an’ she’s the most expensive. These here shallow-draught steamboats that runs up as far as Bettles can’t fetch up no hell of a load of freight, an’ they ain’t afraid to charge fer what they do haul, an’ on top of that it’s all got to be man-hauled in summer, an’ dog-hauled in winter fer the seventy-five mile between here an’ Bettles. An’ all that freightin’ has got to be added onto the Yukon prices.” The man paused and his glance traveled from Gordon’s gold sack to his face. “You can put that up,” he said, “These goods is charged.” “But--you don’t know nothin’ about me. An’ besides, I don’t like to be in debt. There’s dust enough here to pay.”