A man was lying on his back panting in the culminating stages of violent exhaustion.  His face was ghastly, his eyes bloodshot and glazed, for all the world like a dying man.

“Chechaquo!” Kink Mitchell grunted, and it was the grunt of the old “sour dough” for the green-horn, for the man who outfitted with “self-risin’” flour and used baking-powder in his biscuits.

The partners, true to the old-timer custom, had intended to stake down-stream from the strike, but when they saw claim 81 BELOW blazed on a tree,—­which meant fully eight miles below Discovery,—­they changed their minds.  The eight miles were covered in less than two hours.  It was a killing pace, over so rough trail, and they passed scores of exhausted men that had fallen by the wayside.

At Discovery little was to be learned of the upper creek.  Cormack’s Indian brother-in-law, Skookum Jim, had a hazy notion that the creek was staked as high as the 30’s; but when Kink and Bill looked at the corner-stakes of 79 ABOVE, they threw their stampeding packs off their backs and sat down to smoke.  All their efforts had been vain.  Bonanza was staked from mouth to source,—­“out of sight and across the next divide.”  Bill complained that night as they fried their bacon and boiled their coffee over Cormack’s fire at Discovery.

“Try that pup,” Carmack suggested next morning.

“That pup” was a broad creek that flowed into Bonanza at 7 ABOVE.  The partners received his advice with the magnificent contempt of the sour dough for a squaw-man, and, instead, spent the day on Adam’s Creek, another and more likely-looking tributary of Bonanza.  But it was the old story over again—­staked to the sky-line.

For threes days Carmack repeated his advice, and for three days they received it contemptuously.  But on the fourth day, there being nowhere else to go, they went up “that pup.”  They knew that it was practically unstaked, but they had no intention of staking.  The trip was made more for the purpose of giving vent to their ill-humour than for anything else.  They had become quite cynical, sceptical.  They jeered and scoffed at everything, and insulted every chechaquo they met along the way.

At No. 23 the stakes ceased.  The remainder of the creek was open for location.

“Moose pasture,” sneered Kink Mitchell.

But Bill gravely paced off five hundred feet up the creek and blazed the corner-stakes.  He had picked up the bottom of a candle-box, and on the smooth side he wrote the notice for his centre-stake:-

   THIS MOOSE PASTURE IS RESERVED FOR THE
   SWEDES AND CHECHAQUOS. 
   —­BILL RADER.

Kink read it over with approval, saying:-

“As them’s my sentiments, I reckon I might as well subscribe.”

So the name of Charles Mitchell was added to the notice; and many an old sour dough’s face relaxed that day at sight of the handiwork of a kindred spirit.