FullReads

That evening Laughing Bill ascended Anvil Mountain for a second time, but the exertion did not wind him unduly, for he made the ascent at the end of Don Antonio’s tail. He was back in camp for breakfast, and despite his lack of sleep he performed his menial duties during the day with more than his usual cheerfulness.

* * * * *

“Speed up, can’t you?” Slevin paused midway of the steepest slope and spoke impatiently to his partner below.

“I’m coming,” Black Jack panted. Being the heavier and clumsier of the two, the climb was harder for him. “You’re so spry, s’pose you just pack this poke!” He unslung a heavy leather sack from his belt and gave it to Denny.

“We’d ought to ‘a’ got an early start,” the latter complained. “The days are gettin’ short and I had a rotten fall going down, last time.”

Relieved of some fifteen pounds of dead, awkward weight–and nothing is more awkward to carry than a sizable gold sack–Berg made better speed, arriving at the cache in time to see Slevin spit on his hands and fall to digging.

“Every time we open her up I get a shiver,” Denny confessed, with a laugh. “I’m scared to look.”

“Humph! Think she’s going to get up and walk out on us?” Berg seated himself, lit his pipe, and puffed in silence for a while. “We ain’t never been seen,” he declared, positively. “She’s as safe as the Bank of England as long as you don’t get drunk.”

“Me drunk! Ha! Me and the demon rum is divorced forever.” Slevin’s shovel struck wood and he swiftly uncovered the box, then removed its top. He, stood for a full minute staring into its interior, then he cried, hoarsely, “Jack!”

Berg was on his feet in an instant; he strode to the excavation and bent over it. After a time he straightened himself and turned blazing eyes upon his confederate. Denny met his gaze with the glare of a man demented.

“Wha’d I tell you?” the latter chattered. “I told you they’d get it. By God! They have!”

He cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder. Far below the lights of the valley were beginning to twinkle, in the direction of Nome the cross on the Catholic church gleamed palely against the steel-gray expanse of Behring Sea.

Berg was a man of violent temper; he choked and gasped; his face was bloated with an apoplectic rage. He began to growl curses deep in his throat. “Who got it?” he demanded. “Who d’you mean by ‘they‘?”

“‘Sh-h!” Slevin was panic-stricken; he flung out a nervous, jerky hand. “Mebbe they’re here–now. Look out!”

“Who d’you mean by ‘they‘?” the larger man repeated.

“I–God! I dunno! But there must ‘a’ been more’n one. Five hundred pounds! One man couldn’t pack it!”

“You said ‘they‘!” Berg persisted in an odd tone.

Slevin’s madly roving gaze flew back and settled upon the discolored visage thrust toward him, then his own eyes widened. He recoiled, crying:

“Look here! You don’t think I–?” His words ended in a bark.

“I ain’t said what I think, but I’m thinkin’ fast. Nobody knew it but us–“

“How d’you know?”

“I know.”

Slowly Slevin settled himself. His muscles ceased jumping, his bullet head drew down between his shoulders. “Well, it wasn’t me, so it must ‘a’ been–you!”

“Don’t stall!” roared the larger man. “It won’t win you anything. You can’t leave here till you come through.”

“That goes double, Jack. I got my gat, too, and you ain’t going to run out on me.”

“You wanted to quit. You weakened.”

“You’re a liar!”

The men stared fixedly at each other, heads forward, bodies tense; as they glared the fury of betrayal grew to madness.

“Where’d you put it?” Berg ground the words between his teeth.

“I’m askin’ you that very thing,” the foreman answered in a thin, menacing voice. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he widened the distance between himself and his accuser. It was not a retreat, he merely drew himself together defensively, holding himself under control with the last supreme effort of his will.