So MacShane mused, half dozing by the fire while the dog food cooked. “She’s a great strike, all right, but she ain’t the last great strike--by a damn sight. An’ next year this country won’t be fit to live in. When the news gets outside there’ll be fifty thousand _chechakos_ pilin’ in here. The damned fools! Most of ’em will go broke, an’ a lot of ’em will die, an’ a few will take out some dust--but what good will it do ’em? They’ll go back outside an’ buy ’em a chicken ranch. The big country will never get to ’em. They’ll think they’re _skookum_, but it’ll all be luck. The strike’s be’n made, an’ all they got to do is shovel out the gravel. I’d rather be a Siwash than the best of ’em--a Siwash has got a chance to see something new, to follow a trail that ain’t packed, to tear his meat from the teeth of the land, an’ not buy it at the tradin’ company’s store. Damn _chechakos_! But I won’t be here to see ’em. There ain’t anyone tried the Colville river yet, an’ even the Koyukuk ain’t be’n scratched. God, but she’s bleak up there, with the long night, an’ the strong cold. But she ain’t b’en scratched, an’ combed, an’ raked, an’ the cricks ain’t be’n punched full of holes. I’ve got a hunch. North, it says. North!” and with a smile on his lips the man removed the dog food, blew out his light, and rolled between his blankets. CHAPTER II IN THE BIG CAMP It was Dawson’s first Christmas eve. The Golden North Saloon was a blaze of light. Sourdoughs from the creeks crowding the bar kept weighers and bartenders working as they had never worked before. For in the new order of winter mining, the sourdoughs were bent on crowding a whole winter’s hilarity into the space of a few days and nights. Sound filled the air, the blare of the dance hall piano as two step and waltz crashed forth under the sure touch of the nimble fingered Horse Face Joe, and the screech and scrape and moan of the accompanying violin. With punctuating stabs sounded the voice of the caller as, at someone’s vociferous demand, the music swung into a square dance. All this was the crescendo of sound. But other sounds there were, audible, distinguishable, blending a minor theme into the wild harmony of the whole. The soft scraping of moccasined feet on the floor boards, the clink and tinkle of glasses, the crackling rustle of silk petticoats as some sourdough in a sudden excess of exuberance swung his partner high in the air, the drone of voices, the purr of the wheel, an occasional burst of laughter. It was a good night--as nights go--for the pervading spirit was Fun. And the men from the creeks had earned their fun. By the gruelling toil of their two hands they had earned it, by the chopping of cordwood, the tending of fires, and by the gouging and hoisting of frozen gravel from the black mouths of shafts. It was their night, and in the fullness of their several capacities, they were enjoying it.