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It is but one prank of the wilderness, one grim manifestation of its silent forces.

Had Grant been unable to do his part Cantwell would have willingly accepted the added burden, but Mort was able, he was nimble and “handy,” he was the better cook of the two; in fact, he was the better man in every way–or so he believed. Cantwell sneered at the last thought, and the memory of his debt was like bitter medicine.

His resentment–in reality nothing more than a phase of insanity begot of isolation and silence–could not help but communicate itself to his companion, and there resulted a mutual antagonism, which grew into a dislike, then festered into something more, something strange, reasonless, yet terribly vivid and amazingly potent for evil. Neither man ever mentioned it–their tongues were clenched between their teeth and they held themselves in check with harsh hands–but it was constantly in their minds, nevertheless. No man who has not suffered the manifold irritations of such an intimate association can appreciate the gnawing canker of animosity like this. It was dangerous because there was no relief from it: the two were bound together as by gyves; they shared each other’s every action and every plan; they trod in each other’s tracks, slept in the same bed, ate from the same plate. They were like prisoners ironed to the same staple.

Each fought the obsession in his own way, but it is hard to fight the impalpable, hence their sick fancies grew in spite of themselves. Their minds needed food to prey upon, but found none. Each began to criticize the other silently, to sneer at his weaknesses, to meditate derisively upon his peculiarities. After a time they no longer resisted the advance of these poisonous thoughts, but welcomed it.

On more than one occasion the embers of their wrath were upon the point of bursting into flame, but each realized that the first ill-considered word would serve to slip the leash from those demons that were straining to go free, and so managed to restrain himself.

The crisis came one crisp morning when a dog team whirled around a bend in the river and a white man hailed them. He was the mail carrier, on his way out from Nome, and he brought news of the “inside.”

“Where are you boys bound for?” he inquired when greetings were over and gossip of the trail had passed.

“We’re going to the Stony River strike,” Grant told him.

“Stony River? Up the Kuskokwim?”

“Yes!”

The mail man laughed. “Can you beat that? Ain’t you heard about Stony River?”

“No!”

“Why, it’s a fake–no such place.”

There was a silence; the partners avoided each other’s eyes.

“MacDonald, the fellow that started it, is on his way to Dawson. There’s a gang after him, too, and if he’s caught it’ll go hard with him. He wrote the letters–to himself–and spread the news just to raise a grubstake. He cleaned up big before they got onto him. He peddled his tips for real money.”

“Yes!” Grant spoke quietly. “Johnny bought one. That’s what brought us from Seattle. We went out on the last boat and figured we’d come in from this side before the break-up. So–fake!”

“Gee! You fellers bit good.” The mail carrier shook his head. “Well! You’d better keep going now; you’ll get to Nome before the season opens. Better take dogfish from Bethel–it’s four bits a pound on the Yukon. Sorry I didn’t hit your camp last night; we’d ‘a’ had a visit. Tell the gang that you saw me.” He shook hands ceremoniously, yelled at his panting dogs, and went swiftly on his way, waving a mitten on high as he vanished around the next bend.

The partners watched him go, then Grant turned to Johnny, and repeated: “Fake! MacDonald stung you.”

Cantwell’s face went as white as the snow behind him, his eyes blazed. “Why did you tell him I bit?” he demanded harshly.

“Hunh! Didn’t you bite? Two thousand miles afoot; three months of Hades; for nothing. That’s biting some.”