One of these late comers was Sandy McTrigger.  There were several reasons why Sandy had left the Yukon.  He was “in bad” with the police who patrolled the country west of Dawson, and he was “broke.”  In spite of these facts he was one of the best prospectors that had ever followed the shores of the Klondike.  He had made discoveries running up to a million or two, and had promptly lost them through gambling and drink.  He had no conscience, and little fear.  Brutality was the chief thing written in his face.  His undershot jaw, his wide eyes, low forehead and grizzly mop of red hair proclaimed him at once as a man not to be trusted beyond one’s own vision or the reach of a bullet.  It was suspected that he had killed a couple of men, and robbed others, but as yet the police had failed to get anything “on” him.  But along with this bad side of him, Sandy McTrigger possessed a coolness and a courage which even his worst enemies could not but admire, and also certain mental depths which his unpleasant features did not proclaim.

Inside of six months Red Gold City had sprung up on the McFarlane, a hundred and fifty miles from Fort Smith, and Fort Smith was five hundred miles from civilization.  When Sandy came he looked over the crude collection of shacks, gambling houses and saloons in the new town, and made up his mind that the time was not ripe for any of his “inside” schemes just yet.  He gambled a little, and won sufficient to buy himself grub and half an outfit.  A feature of this outfit was an old muzzle-loading rifle.  Sandy, who always carried the latest Savage on the market, laughed at it.  But it was the best his finances would allow of.  He started south—­up the McFarlane.  Beyond a certain point on the river prospectors had found no gold.  Sandy pushed confidently beyond this point.  Not until he was in new country did he begin his search.  Slowly he worked his way up a small tributary whose headwaters were fifty or sixty miles to the south and east.  Here and there he found fairly good placer gold.  He might have panned six or eight dollars’ worth a day.  With this much he was disgusted.  Week after week he continued to work his way up-stream, and the farther he went the poorer his pans became.  At last only occasionally did he find colors.  After such disgusting weeks as these Sandy was dangerous—­when in the company of others.  Alone he was harmless.

One afternoon he ran his canoe ashore on a white strip of sand.  This was at a bend, where the stream had widened, and gave promise of at least a few colors.  He had bent down close to the edge of the water when something caught his attention on the wet sand.  What he saw were the footprints of animals.  Two had come down to drink.  They had stood side by side.  And the footprints were fresh—­made not more than an hour or two before.  A gleam of interest shot into Sandy’s eyes.  He looked behind him, and up and down the stream.

“Wolves,” he grunted.  “Wish I could ‘a’ shot at ’em with that old minute-gun back there.  Gawd—­listen to that!  And in broad daylight, too!”