ring like a drunken man, and at times beating the air with his
hands for support.

CHAPTER VII

GOD'S GENTLEMEN

The storm which twisted the forest into wild contortions, and swept the
snow around the plodding outcast, beat itself in vain against Peter
Martin's snug log cabin. It did its best, however, to find an
entrance, but the timbers were well clinked with moss, while the door
and small window were so securely fastened that not a particle of snow
could gain admittance.

It was Christmas Eve, and for that reason six men were gathered
together at "Old Pete's," as he was commonly called. They had
travelled far for that occasion, and were thoroughly enjoying it in
their own quiet way. They were prospectors, the pathfinders of the
country, the advance guard of civilization. Calm, temperate, sons of
Anak in size and strength, they were noble friends but stern enemies.
For long years they had followed the gleaming gold through regions
never before trodden by the foot of white man. Across rugged
mountains, through vast forests, and over sweeping plains, they were
ever wandering, their only roads the mighty inland streams, placid
lakes, or crooked Indian trails; and their dwelling places, the log
hut, the rude brush house, the banked-up snow, or the open vault of
heaven.

Once in the year these six men drifted together, at the Christmas
season, when old friendships were renewed and experiences related. But
on this occasion there was a thorn in the flesh. The miners had
arrived, and with them the demoralizing whiskey. They resented this
intrusion into what they considered their rightful domain. Though most
of the newcomers had gathered at Klassan, some had drifted to Siwash
Creek, where they had built themselves cabins and settled down to pass
the long winter. At these men Pete and his companions looked somewhat
askance, for they felt they were not of their class. There was one,
however, old "Colonel" Radhurst, with the white hair and sad face; he
was different from the rest, so they thought.

Pete Martin's only game was chess, and he loved it dearly. The pieces
he had made with much skill from the hard tusk of a huge mastodon
skeleton, which he had unearthed in a deep creek. It had taken him
many long nights to complete the task, and each piece was the child of
his own fond fancy. Alec McPherson, a sturdy son of the heather, was
his keen opponent, and, while the others wrestled at cards or checke