iving wind. "Now the divil fly away wid the whiskey! It's pay day an'
the camp's loose. God send, there's a quiet spot to be found near at
hand!"

Through the driving snow could be seen the dim, black outlines of the
various structures of the pioneer town. First came the camp building,
the bunkhouse, grub-house, office, blacksmith shop, and beyond these the
glaring lights of a couple of saloons, while back nearer timber the "red
lights," the curse and shame of railroad, lumber, and mining camps in
British Columbia then and unto this day, cast their baleful lure through
the snowy night.

At full gallop Tommy drove his bronchos up to the door of the first
saloon and before they were well stopped burst open the door, crying
out, "Give us a hand here, min, for the love o' God!" Swipey, the
saloon-keeper, came himself to the door.

"What have you there, Tommy?" he asked.

"It's mesilf don't know. It wuz alive when we started out. Are ye there,
Scotty?" There was no answer. "The saints be good to us! Are ye alive
at all?" He lifted back the buffalo robe from the sick man's face and he
found him breathing heavily, but unable to speak. "Where's yer doctor?"

"Haven't seen him raound," said Swipey. "Have you, Shorty?"

"Yes," replied the man called Shorty. "He's in there with the boys."

Tommy swore a great oath. "Like our own docthor, he is, the blank, dirty
suckers they are! Sure, they'd pull a bung hole out be the roots!"

"He's not that way," replied Swipey, "our doctor."

"Not much he ain't!" cried Shorty. "But he's into the biggest game with
'Mexico' an' the boys ye ever seen in this camp."

"Fer the love av Hivin git him!" cried Tommy. "The man is dyin'. Here,
min, let's git him in."

"There's no place here for a sick man," said the saloon-keeper.

"What? He's dyin', I'm tellin' ye!"

"Well, this ain't no place to die in. We ain't got time." An angry
murmur ran through the men about the door. "Take him up to the
bunk-house," said the saloon-keeper to Tommy with a stream of oaths.
"What d'ye want to come monkeyin' raound my house for with a sick man?
How do you know what he's got?"

"What differ does it make what he's got?" retorted Tommy. "Blank yer
dirty face fer a bloody son of a sheep thief! It's plinty of me money
ye've had, but it's no more ye'll git! Where'll I take the man to?" he
cried, appealing to the crowd. "Ye can't let him die on the street!"

Meantime Shorty had found the doctor in a small r