se madmen monkeying with powder. The government
sent them gold in sacks, to pay those who were left for the lives that
had been lost.

They were mad; they tumbled champagne out of bottles into tubs, frisking
about in it. They had heard that this was done with money.

But Pal Yachy was more foolish. He came singing; oh my, this was a
powerful song, ringing against the ledges. This was a fantastic Italian,
singing like an angel to the deserted woman. Her eyes were dark; the
breast heaved. Oh, these sweet notes were never lost on her.

Now at this time, too, Pal Yachy offered a great prize for the first
child to be born on Mushrat. He came grinning under his red cap, saying
to us, "There are so many dying, should there not be a prize offered for
new life?"

He had learned what manner the woman had of surprising Rainbow Pete. It
was a great prize he offered. When the child was born, he stopped the
monkeying with powder in the valley for that day, though this too was a
great loss in money. The woman pleased him.

Then, my friend, on the night of the day when this child was born,
Rainbow Pete came back into the valley. Oh my, it's plain to us, looking
at the man under the stars, he has been toughing it. Ay! His beard was
tangled, the great bones were rising on his bare chest, his fingers
twitched as he was drooping over us. Now I'm telling you his eyes were
dim, and the sun had bleached his mustache the color of a lemon. There
he stood before us, holding the bag over his shoulder, while he went
scratching his bold nose like the picture of a pirate. Still he was
gentle in the eye; he was mild in misfortune. Oh, this sailorman was
just used to toughing it.

Look here, there he stopped, in the shadow of this great rock I'm
speaking of, and these men of Mushrat came asking him if he had made the
grade. They were fresh from dipping their carcasses in champagne. They
were sparkling men, not accountable to themselves.

"Have you made the grade?" they went bawling to him. This is to say, had
he struck gold?

"Oh, there's gold enough," Pete went rumbling at them, "but it's too far
to the North, mate. There's no taickle made for getting purchase on it."

"So I am thinking," said the little medicine-man, McGregor. "It lies
still at the foot of the rainbow."

"Ay," said Rainbow Pete; but with this word we went thinking of Pal
Yachy. Still we did not speak the name of that Italian. No, this would
be stronger in the ear of that