“What'd you pay old Sanderson twenty-five thousan' for? Will you answer that?” “Bill, you give me a pain,” was Smoke's reply. “I came over here for a country residence, so to say, and here are you and a gang trying to cross-examine me when I'm looking for peace an' quietness an' breakfast. What's a country residence good for, except for peace and quietness?” “You ain't answered the question,” Bill Saltman came back with rigid logic. “And I'm not going to, Bill. That affair is peculiarly a personal affair between Dwight Sanderson and me. Any other question?” “How about that crowbar an' steel cable then, what you had on your sled the other night?” “It's none of your blessed and ruddy business, Bill. Though if Shorty here wants to tell you about it, he can.” “Sure!” Shorty cried, springing eagerly into the breach. His mouth opened, then he faltered and turned to his partner. “Smoke, confidentially, just between you an' me, I don't think it IS any of their darn business. Come on in. The life's gettin' boiled outa that coffee.” The door closed and the three hundred sagged into forlorn and grumbling groups. “Say, Saltman,” one man said, “I thought you was goin' to lead us to it.” “Not on your life,” Saltman answered crustily. “I said Smoke would lead us to it.” “An' this is it?” “You know as much about it as me, an' we all know Smoke's got something salted down somewheres. Or else for what did he pay Sanderson the twenty-five thousand? Not for this mangy town-site, that's sure an' certain.” A chorus of cries affirmed Saltman's judgment. “Well, what are we goin' to do now?” someone queried dolefully. “Me for one for breakfast,” Wild Water Charley said cheerfully. “You led us up a blind alley this time, Bill.” “I tell you I didn't,” Saltman objected. “Smoke led us. An' just the same, what about them twenty-five thousand?” At half-past eight, when daylight had grown strong, Shorty carefully opened the door and peered out. “Shucks,” he exclaimed. “They-all's hiked back to Dawson. I thought they was goin' to camp here.” “Don't worry; they'll come sneaking back,” Smoke reassured him. “If I don't miss my guess you'll see half Dawson over here before we're done with it. Now jump in and lend me a hand. We've got work to do.” “Aw, for Heaven's sake put me on,” Shorty complained, when, at the end of an hour, he surveyed the result of their toil--a windlass in the corner of the cabin, with an endless rope that ran around double logrollers. Smoke turned it with a minimum of effort, and the rope slipped and creaked. “Now, Shorty, you go outside and tell me what it sounds like.”