stead o'
the bottle. And it's all paid for, and I got more 'n a hundred dollars
left, besides givin' Joey a fistful o' money jest for bein' a good
feller. This ain't a bad town at all, gents. Outside o' that
buckin'-broncho hammick and the man-eatin' ants I had a lovely evenin'."

"How about Joao's lady friend?" quizzed Knowlton.

"Huh? Oh, I didn't git to see her. When bones and beer are rollin' high
and handsome I got no time for women. Besides, I found out she was
mostly Injun and fat as a hog. Nothin' like that for li'l' Timmy Ryan.
Oh, say, before I forgit it--I asked Joey about this Dutchman here, and
he says--"

McKay scowled, shook his head, pointed toward the closed door of
Schwandorf. Tim lifted his brows, winked understanding, and went on with
a break: "--that this guy Sworn-off is a reg'lar feller and knows this
river like a book. Says he's one fine guy and a man from hair to heels."

Following which he grimaced as if something smelled bad, adding in a
barely audible whisper, "And that's the worst lie I ever told."

"We met Mr. Schwandorf last night after you went," Knowlton said,
easily, drawing down one eyelid. "Very likable sort of chap. He's going
to help us get started upriver."

"Uh-huh. When do we go? To-day?"

"If possible."

"Glad of it. This big-town sportin' life would be the ruination of a
simple country kid like me. Yo-hum! Wonder how all our neighbors are
this mornin'--the goat and the drunk and the two sick fellers. Kind o'
quiet over that side o' the room."

Thomaz entered just then with more coffee. Knowlton turned to him.

"Are the sick men better to-day, Thomaz?"

"Much better, senhor," the lad said, carelessly. "They are dead."

"Huh?" Tim grunted, explosively.

"Dead," the youth repeated. "They were taken out at dawn. Do not be
alarmed. It was the swamp fever, which is not--what you say?--catching."

"Humph! Sort of a reg'lar thing to die of fever here, hey?"

Thomaz shrugged as if hearing a foolish question.

"_Si._ Swamp fever, yellow fever, smallpox, beriberi--to-day we live,
to-morrow we are dead."

"True for ye. They's allays somethin' hidin' round the corner waitin' to
jump ye, no matter where ye are. If 'tain't one thing, it's another."

Despite his philosophical answer, however, Tim fell silent, his eyes
going to the doors of the rooms where Death had stalked last night while
he was gambling. Like most men in whose veins red blood runs bold and
free, he had