The man disappeared as abruptly as he had appeared. The three Gordons smiled. “Nice and hearty for a neighbor,” said Mrs. Gordon. “Down below, the way it is now, if we’d have located within half a mile of one of those _chechakos_, he’d have been growling about our crowding in on him.” “Different breed of pups up here,” replied her husband. “All malamutes an’ huskies--no mongrels.” The women returned to their duties about the tent, and Gordon resumed his chopping. It was nearly noon the next day when eight men, headed by Pete Enright, threaded their way through the spruce timber, and came to a halt before Gordon. Each man carried an ax. “Hello, Gordon!” Enright greeted, and turned to his followers. “Boys, this here’s Old Man Gordon, I was tellin’ you about.” He proceeded to introduce each man by name, and when he had finished, addressed them. “All right, boys, go to it! “Wouldn’t make it no bigger’n ten by twelve, Gordon. Mine’s six by eight--warm as hell, but no room. There’s only one of me, though.” At Enright’s bidding, the men scattered about the timber and soon Myrtle Creek rang to the song of axes. “Where’d they all come from?” asked Gordon, as Enright sank his ax to the helve into a standing tree. “Come from? They’re all Myrtle Creekers. I mushed on down the creek an’ gathered ’em up. The Slate Creek boys all be growling ’cause I didn’t let them in on it, but, shucks, there’s enough of us here to roll up the cabin, an’ chink it an’ throw up a dog shelter, an’ cut yer winter’s wood in a couple days or so.” “I’m sure obliged,” said Gordon, “I’ll slip over to the tent an’ tell ma to cook up an extra batch of grub.” “Not by a damn sight!” cried Enright. “We didn’t come up here to eat off’n you all. We come to roll up a cabin. An’ we packed our own grub.” “I’ll not permit it!” cried Gordon. “Ye’ll eat my grub, or ye’ll not work on my cabin! Who d’ye think I am to----” Enright laid a huge hand on Gordon’s shoulder, “Hold on, Gordon,” he said, “You listen to me. You ain’t on the Yukon, now--you’re on the Koyukuk. Our ways is a little different here, than some other places. But there’s reasons for it. Take this grub business. It’s a hell of a job to pack grub up from Coldfoot. You’ve figgered yer grub to run you till a certain time--everyone does. Of course if it was only one man, fer a few meals it wouldn’t cut no figger. But there’s eight of us fer may be three or four days, an’ we ain’t what you might say light eaters. Anyhow we’d make a hell of a hole in any man’s grub pile. Now, we’d all be eatin’ our own grub anyhow so it’ll last as long as it was figgered to last. Hell, man! You might better roll up yer own cabin than be et out of grub. On the Koyukuk we like to do one another a good turn. An’ when we do we don’t want no half ways about it, neither. All we got up here is each other.”