Burning Daylight
made a night of it, wrath and evil were forbidden. On his nights men
dared not quarrel. In the younger days such things had happened, and
then men had known what real wrath was, and been man-handled as only
Burning Daylight could man-handle. On his nights men must laugh and be
happy or go home. Daylight was inexhaustible. In between dances he
paid over to Kearns the twenty thousand in dust and transferred to him
his Moosehide claim. Likewise he arranged the taking over of Billy
Rawlins' mail contract, and made his preparations for the start. He
despatched a messenger to rout out Kama, his dog-driver--a Tananaw
Indian, far-wandered from his tribal home in the service of the
invading whites. Kama entered the Tivoli, tall, lean, muscular, and
fur-clad, the pick of his barbaric race and barbaric still, unshaken
and unabashed by the revellers that rioted about him while Daylight
gave his orders. "Um," said Kama, tabling his instructions on his
fingers. "Get um letters from Rawlins. Load um on sled. Grub for
Selkirk--you think um plenty dog-grub stop Selkirk?"

"Plenty dog-grub, Kama."

"Um, bring sled this place nine um clock. Bring um snowshoes. No bring
um tent. Mebbe bring um fly? um little fly?"

"No fly," Daylight answered decisively.

"Um much cold."

"We travel light--savvee? We carry plenty letters out, plenty letters
back. You are strong man. Plenty cold, plenty travel, all right."

"Sure all right," Kama muttered, with resignation.

"Much cold, no care a damn. Um ready nine um clock."

He turned on his moccasined heel and walked out, imperturbable,
sphinx-like, neither giving nor receiving greetings nor looking to
right or left. The Virgin led Daylight away into a corner.

"Look here, Daylight," she said, in a low voice, "you're busted."

"Higher'n a kite."

"I've eight thousand in Mac's safe--" she began.

But Daylight interrupted. The apron-string loomed near and he shied
like an unbroken colt.

"It don't matter," he said. "Busted I came into the world, busted I go
out, and I've been busted most of the time since I arrived. Come on;
let's waltz."

"But listen," she urged. "My money's doing nothing. I could lend it
to you--a grub-stake," she added hurriedly, at sight of the alarm in
his face.

"Nobody grub-stakes me," was the answer. "I stake myself, and when I
make a killing it's sure all mine. No thank you, old girl. Much
obliged. I'll get my stak