By the time he had descended to the Scales, the steep pitch of Chilcoot was past, and the way became easier.  Not that it was an easy way, however, in the best of places; but it became a really possible trail, along which he could have made good time if he had not been worn out, if he had had light with which to pick his steps, and if it had not been for Bondell’s gripsack.  To him, in his exhausted condition, it was the last straw.  Having barely strength to carry himself along, the additional weight of the grip was sufficient to throw him nearly every time he tripped or stumbled.  And when he escaped tripping, branches reached out in the darkness, hooked the grip between his shoulders, and held him back.

His mind was made up that if he missed the Athenian it would be the fault of the gripsack.  In fact, only two things remained in his consciousness—­Bondell’s grip and the steamer.  He knew only those two things, and they became identified, in a way, with some stern mission upon which he had journeyed and toiled for centuries.  He walked and struggled on as in a dream.  A part of the dream was his arrival at Sheep Camp.  He stumbled into a saloon, slid his shoulders out of the straps, and started to deposit the grip at his feet.  But it slipped from his fingers and struck the floor with a heavy thud that was not unnoticed by two men who were just leaving.  Churchill drank a glass of whiskey, told the barkeeper to call him in ten minutes, and sat down, his feet on the grip, his head on his knees.

So badly did his misused body stiffen, that when he was called it required another ten minutes and a second glass of whiskey to unbend his joints and limber up the muscles.

“Hey! not that way!” the barkeeper shouted, and then went after him and started him through the darkness toward Canyon City.  Some little husk of inner consciousness told Churchill that the direction was right, and, still as in a dream, he took the canyon trail.  He did not know what warned him, but after what seemed several centuries of travelling, he sensed danger and drew his revolver.  Still in the dream, he saw two men step out and heard them halt him.  His revolver went off four times, and he saw the flashes and heard the explosions of their revolvers.  Also, he was aware that he had been hit in the thigh.  He saw one man go down, and, as the other came for him, he smashed him a straight blow with the heavy revolver full in the face.  Then he turned and ran.  He came from the dream shortly afterward, to find himself plunging down the trail at a limping lope.  His first thought was for the gripsack.  It was still on his back.  He was convinced that what had happened was a dream till he felt for his revolver and found it gone.  Next he became aware of a sharp stinging of his thigh, and after investigating, he found his hand warm with blood.  It was a superficial wound, but it was incontestable.  He became wider awake, and kept up the lumbering run to Canyon City.