in the temporary quarters of the Monte Carlo--a large tent were
stampeders rested their weary bones and bad whisky sold at a dollar a
drink. Since the only money in circulation was dust, and since the house
took the "down-weight" on the scales, a drink cost something more than a
dollar. Bill and Kink were not drinking, principally for the reason that
their one and common sack was not strong enough to stand many excursions
to the scales.

"Say, Bill, I've got a _chechaquo_ on the string for a sack of flour,"
Mitchell announced jubilantly.

Bill looked interested and pleased. Grub as scarce, and they were not
over-plentifully supplied for the quest after Too Much Gold.

"Flour's worth a dollar a pound," he answered. "How like do you
calculate to get your finger on it?"

"Trade 'm a half-interest in that claim of ourn," Kink answered.

"What claim?" Bill was surprised. Then he remembered the reservation he
had staked off for the Swedes, and said, "Oh!"

"I wouldn't be so clost about it, though," he added. "Give 'm the whole
thing while you're about it, in a right free-handed way."

Bill shook his head. "If I did, he'd get clean scairt and prance off.
I'm lettin' on as how the ground is believed to be valuable, an' that
we're lettin' go half just because we're monstrous short on grub. After
the dicker we can make him a present of the whole shebang."

"If somebody ain't disregarded our notice," Bill objected, though he was
plainly pleased at the prospect of exchanging the claim for a sack of
flour.

"She ain't jumped," Kink assured him. "It's No. 24, and it stands. The
_chechaquos_ took it serious, and they begun stakin' where you left off.
Staked clean over the divide, too. I was gassin' with one of them which
has just got in with cramps in his legs."

It was then, and for the first time, that they heard the slow and groping
utterance of Ans Handerson.

"Ay like the looks," he was saying to the bar-keeper. "Ay tank Ay gat a
claim."

The partners winked at each other, and a few minutes later a surprised
and grateful Swede was drinking bad whisky with two hard-hearted
strangers. But he was as hard-headed as they were hard-hearted. The
sack made frequent journeys to the scales, followed solicitously each
time by Kink Mitchell's eyes, and still Ans Handerson did not loosen up.
In his pale blue eyes, as in summer seas, immortal dreams swam up and
burned, but the swimming and the burning were due to t