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 had to run up here—to Stewart, the next stop. My man was called away—delayed up there. Going up to consummate the deal. Strike while the iron's hot, my boy. Nothing like it. And you?”

“I got called away, too,” said Dick slowly. “I was tryin' to find Dowd. Up on the next claim, 'e was. Remember Dowd?” The smoothness of it deceived Lederer, who did not stop to think that Dick was miles from Gold Hill, and when one walks miles over the wet moss one has much time to think—of simple things to say, at least.

“Don't remember him,” replied Lederer indifferently. “But I was so seldom in

“Right, doc.” They were at the gangplank. “Boat's laid up for the night, they tell me. Come over to my camp and I'll tell you about Dowd, Glad I met you. Luck, I'll call it.”

“Luck? My word, Dicky!” Lederer had decided to follow him. If there was to be a scene—but of course that was impossible—still it was better enacted off somewhere. The boat was dangerous. A mounted police sergeant was aboard. There was the gambler, who had developed a slightly sneering attitude with the last bottle, and the presence of his woman friend. “Let's go,” he said. “I've things to tell you too. Almost sure of a sale, my boy. Matters couldn't look more encouraging. What?”

He received no reply as Dick led him along a path into the mossy woods. He did not like that. Dick always replied, though his reply was seldom worth listening to.

Dick, though, could not reply. He had exhausted, at one Herculean effort—the obscure reference to the apocryphal Dowd—his capacity for simulation. He would simulate no more, not unless it were absolutely necessary. To be alone with his partner was what he too wanted. He had no doubt of his power. No honest man like Dick Kibble, feeling as Dick Kibble felt, has doubt of his power.

There was a small, hidden camp a thousand yards down the river in the timber. There was a blanket, a frying pan and a small—a pitifully small—pack of grub, the last of the Lederer-Kibble outfit, which had been rather a brave one, in a modest way, when it had left Seattle.

The way was narrow in the brush where it debouched upon the small clearing. Dick let Lederer precede him. He always had done this and Lederer took no alarm. As Lederer stepped upon the sod of the camp Kibble sprang upon him and bore him down. Naturally the two men were less than equal, in Lederer's favor. Fourteen hours a day, however, is a hardening process when devoted to pick, shovel and ax. But Kibble took no chances. He had him down and a skinning knife held to his throat.

“Excuse me, doc,” he said, sobbing miserably. “Mebbe I'm wrong. I got to know. And you're too smart for me to take chances on.”

“Dick!” gasped Lederer, utter pathos in his voice. It was the cry of a man who finds the wife of his bosom unfaithful to him.

“I got wind you was goin' out,” said Dick doggedly, moving the knife not one hair's breadth away.

“Absurd!” snorted Lederer disgustedly. “How could you think”

“I'll tell you. The bloke in that barrister's place that made the paper that give you the right to sell me out—he wrote me. I know it by 'eart. 'I remember you,' he says, 'from your Austrilian talk.' Took me for a blooming Austrilian, and remembers arskin' me about a pal of his, if I ever seen him. 'Your pardner,' he says, 'is selling your claim and takin' fifteen thousand for it while he's lookin' at the last steamer. Congratulations. And by the w'y,' he adds, 'the boat stops, I understand, at way points, the first bein' Indian River.'

“Doc, I gets that letter by reg'lar mail carrier the day after your letter come saying there was delay. You lied sure, or he lied. I'll find out. I got to. Move and I'll cut your throat!”

With his other hand he searched the pockets of the fear-stricken man—dumb, his wit strangely deserting him. He drew out a pocketbook, wrenching it free of the safety pins that secured it. Fumbling through it with his one free hand he drew forth a steamship ticket. He could not read it in the dark.

“For Stewart station, Dick. You foolish boy,” Lederer found tongue to pur—hoping still.

Kibble sprang up, holding the ticket against the glare of the coals of the camp fire. “Pretty big—for Stewart!” He remembered the tickets, coming into the country.

Holding the strip of pasteboard between