he other side.

At the first hint of daylight he got under way, breakfastless, and
wallowed a mile upstream to pick up the trail. And breakfastless, man
and dogs, without a halt, for eight hours held back transversely across
the series of small creeks and low divides and down Minnow Creek. By
four in the afternoon, with darkness fast-set about him, he emerged on
the hard-packed, running trail of Moose Creek. Fifty miles of it would
end the journey. He called a rest, built a fire, threw each dog its
half-salmon, and thawed and ate his pound of beans. Then he sprang on
the sled, yelled, "Mush!" and the dogs went out strongly against their
breast-bands.

"Hit her up, you huskies!" he cried. "Mush on! Hit her up for grub! And
no grub short of Mucluc! Dig in, you wolves! Dig in!"

Midnight had gone a quarter of an hour in the Annie Mine. The main room
was comfortably crowded, while roaring stoves, combined with lack of
ventilation, kept the big room unsanitarily warm. The click of chips and
the boisterous play at the craps-table furnished a monotonous background
of sound to the equally monotonous rumble of men's voices where they
sat and stood about and talked in groups and twos and threes. The
gold-weighers were busy at their scales, for dust was the circulating
medium, and even a dollar drink of whiskey at the bar had to be paid for
to the weighers.

The walls of the room were of tiered logs, the bark still on, and the
chinking between the logs, plainly visible, was arctic moss. Through the
open door that led to the dance-room came the rollicking strains of a
Virginia reel, played by a piano and a fiddle. The drawing of Chinese
lottery had just taken place, and the luckiest player, having cashed at
the scales, was drinking up his winnings with half a dozen cronies.
The faro- and roulette-tables were busy and quiet. The draw-poker and
stud-poker tables, each with its circle of onlookers, were equally
quiet. At another table, a serious, concentrated game of Black Jack was
on. Only from the craps-table came noise, as the man who played rolled
the dice, full sweep, down the green amphitheater of a table in pursuit
of his elusive and long-delayed point. Ever he cried: "Oh! you Joe
Cotton! Come a four! Come a Joe! Little Joe! Bring home the bacon, Joe!
Joe, you Joe, you!"

Cultus George, a big strapping Circle City Indian, leaned distantly and
dourly against the log wall. He was a civilized Indian, if living like a
white