The ice in the river moved downstream that night. Beginning next morning he worked thirty-six hours, steady, on a wing dam. The last of the ice passed down the river. He pulled the gate in the dam and let the water into the boxes, picked down some pay dirt from the sides. It worked like a charm. He was ready to sluice. He staggered to his cabin, curled up in his blankets and was sound asleep in no time. Out of a hundred men Lucky Jim would have been the only one to go to all this trouble. The remaining ninety-nine would have contented themselves with rocking, and let it go at that. The high water might last no longer than a week. But in that week's sluicing Lucky Jim would shove more pay dirt through the boxes than three men could rock all summer long. Shortly after midnight--though almost as clear as day at this time--the dogs began to bark, but Lucky Jim did not hear them. A few moments later Chenoa Pete shoved the barrel of his rifle through the open window, then cautiously raised his head. In that moment Mike Haggart entered by way of the door and covered Lucky Jim. Chenoa Pete then climbed in by way of the window. Like a jack-in-the-box Lucky Jim suddenly raised himself to a sitting posture, and mechanically reached for his rifle which hung on the wall just above his bunk. "Quit that and put them up!" ordered Mike Haggart. Lucky Jim rubbed his eyes and glanced from one to the other. "What's the idea?" he asked, raising his hands above his head. "You're goin' back down the river," stated Chenoa Pete. "If you go quietly, everything will be hunkydory. If you make a fuss about it--why, you won't go at all. Get up!" While his hands happened to be up Lucky Jim seized the opportunity for a good yawn. "You poor crooks," he then said, throwing his legs over the bunk onto the floor. "I suppose you wouldn't listen to a partnership proposition?" An idea had entered Lucky Jim's head. "I should say nix!" exclaimed Chenoa Pete with a laugh. "You've got everything set and ready for a whoppin' clean-up a week from now. I'll say you're a good miner. But down the river you've got to go." "And you're gonna stay down, too, see!" And Mike Haggart poked Lucky Jim in the side with the business end of his rifle. "Just why are you running me off this bar?" "Why? Good Lord, ain't we been watching Dad Manslow for eighteen months and tryin' to get outa him where he got that $2,000 worth of dust? Do you think a bar like this is picked up every day?" "Why don't you go out and hunt up your own bars?" "Aw, cut out the wranglin'!" exclaimed Chenoa Pete. "Put some grub in a box and get the hell outa here!" Lucky Jim filled a sack with provisions and, followed by the claim-jumpers, went down the trail cut in the bank to the beach. There he was ordered aboard a raft tied to the root of a drift log, then told to call his dogs aboard. When this was done, they untied the rope and shoved the raft out into the current.