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“No! No! No! ” He rose and shouted into the empty silence of his cabin. “I won’t do it! I won’t! I won’t!”

But the voices called to him all through the night.

He rose early, for they would not let him rest, and during the darkness a terrible hunger had grown upon him. It was the hunger for companionship, for speech. His secret was too great for imprisonment, it threatened to burst the confines of the valley by its own tremendous force; he knew he could never sleep with it, for it would smother him; vampire-like, it would suck the life from his veins and the reason from his brain.

When he had eaten he pocketed the baking-powder tin, slipped into his snow-shoes and, crossing the gulch, climbed the westward hills that hid his neighbors. The dogs went with him.

II

News of the John Daniels strike reached Ophir in July, when a ragged, unkempt man arrived in a poling-boat. He was one of the party that had camped west of McGill, and he ate a raw potato with the ravenous appetite of an animal while waiting for his first meal at the Miner’s Rest. Between mouthfuls he gave the word that set the town ablaze.

When he had bought a ton of grub at the A. C. store and weighed out payment in bright pumpkin-seed gold he went to Hopper’s saloon and handed the proprietor a folded paper.

Hopper read it uncomprehendingly.

“This is a location notice, recorded in my name,” the latter said, turning the document uncomprehendingly as if to see if it contained a message on the reverse side.

The stranger nodded. “Number Four Above, on John Daniels Creek. John staked for you, and told me to tell you to come. We’ve struck it rich.”

Hopper’s hand shook; he stared at the speaker in bewilderment. “John Daniels? I don’t seem to remember him.”

“He’s a big slab-sided man with a deep voice and eyes like ice.”

The listener started. “Is he–skookum?”

“Stronger ‘n any two men–“

“God! It’s–McGill!”

“I thought so, but I never saw him only once–that was in Circle. He’s changed now–got a beard. He said you done him a favor once. You’re his friend, ain’t you?”

“I am.”

“What’s the trouble with him?” There was a pause. “You can tell me. He put me and my five pardners in on his strike. I’m taking grub to him and the others.”

“Oh, it was about a woman, of course. It always is. Everybody here knows the story. She was no good, except to look at. Feller named Barclay brought her into the country, but Dan didn’t know it, so he up and marries her. She thought he had money, and when she found he was broke like the rest of us she and Barclay began cuttin’ up again. It was rotten. I came near putting Barclay away, but figgered Dan wouldn’t like nobody to do his work, so I told him. He went out to clean the slate, but found his wife was crazy about the skunk and always had been, so he sent ’em away together. He done it for her sake, but he warned ’em to stay off his trail, because no camp was big enough to hold all three of ’em. It was blizzardy, and what did the blame’ fools do but get caught ten miles below here. Cochrane brought ’em back that night on his sled. McGill was here, right where you’re standing, when they were lugged in. When he seen Barclay he went after him again, figgerin’, I suppose, that God was disgusted with his proposition and had sent the feller back to be finished.”

“Good!” said the stranger. “And he got him, eh?”

“No! Barclay wasn’t more ‘n half dead, and the woman fell to beggin’ for his life again. She appealed to all of us. McGill must have loved her more ‘n we give him credit for, because when he saw that neither one of ’em was able to leave, he left instead. He walked right out of that door into the wickedest storm we had that season, and we never seen him again. Everybody thought he froze or the wolves got him. That was a year ago last winter.”