On Myrtle Creek, six miles above its mouth, the Gordons selected a cabin site, close against the shoulder of a mountain, where a thicket of spruce promised some protection against winter gales. And it was in the building of this cabin that they came first to realize the real comradery, the _esprit de corps_ of the men of the Koyukuk. For the two or three hundred white men who live upon the Koyukuk and its tributaries, all but a half-dozen of whom are grouped far within the Arctic Circle, more than six hundred miles above the river’s confluence with the Yukon, and isolated as few other camps in the North are isolated in the land of the strong cold and the long dark, count themselves more a family than a community. A man strikes it lucky, and the whole Koyukuk rejoices. Another meets misfortune, disease or accident, and down he goes for medical attention--Fairbanks--Vancouver--Seattle--and the Koyukuk pays the bills. And in no other gold camp in the world is it the common practice when a man “goes broke” for another more fortunate than he to invite him to “take yer pan an’ go down on my claim an’ git out what you need.” And so, in the building of the cabin. Hardly had Gordon felled the first tree when he was suddenly confronted by a bearded giant whose faded overalls were tucked into a pair of rubber boots: “Hello, neighbor!” greeted the man, “Goin’ to locate? That’s good. I’m Pete Enright, half a mile up the creek.” “Gordon’s my name, Old Man Gordon, they call me down Dawson way. Yes, guess I’ll try my luck here.” “She’s spotted, Gordon, remember she’s spotted. Lots of gold if you can only find it. Don’t git down-hearted. She’s here, but she lays in pockets.” Attracted by the sound of voices, Mrs. Gordon and Lou appeared from the little tent pitched close beside the creek. “Well, for gosh sakes!” cried Enright, staring in surprise at the two. “Ladies! Real white ladies on Myrtle!” “My wife an’ daughter,” introduced Gordon, “This is Pete Enright, our neighbor just above.” “You all’s _skookum_, all right. First ladies on Myrtle, almost the first on the Koyukuk. No wonder you didn’t stick around Dawson. They tell me the whole Yukon country is gummed up with shorthorns an’ _chechakos_, till a man ain’t got elbow room for to swing a pick. You all’s moose chewers all right, an’ you jist nach’ly had to come where the moose chewers is. Well, I got to go. So long, folks, see you agin. Don’t cut ’em too long, Gordon. Little cabins is easier het than big uns. She gits away down there when the strong cold’s on. Fifty below is common, sixty ain’t nothin’ to brag about, an’ they claim she’s hit way below seventy. My thermometer thicks up so’s she ain’t no good at sixty-seven, an’ I know she gits colder, but I can’t measure it. The cold’s all right when yer fixed fer it. But she’s God’s own country--no shorthorns nor _chechakos_--plenty room to move around in. So long.”