His face had a wistful, hungry expression.  The cheeks were hollow, and the skin seemed stretched a trifle tightly across the cheek-bones.  His pale blue eyes were troubled.  There was that in them that showed the haunting imminence of something terrible.  Doubt was in them, and anxiety and foreboding.  The thin lips were thinner than they were made to be, and they seemed to hunger towards the polished frying-pan.

He sat back and drew forth a pipe.  He looked into it with sharp scrutiny, and tapped it emptily on his open palm.  He turned the hair-seal tobacco pouch inside out and dusted the lining, treasuring carefully each flake and mite of tobacco that his efforts gleaned.  The result was scarce a thimbleful.  He searched in his pockets, and brought forward, between thumb and forefinger, tiny pinches of rubbish.  Here and there in this rubbish were crumbs of tobacco.  These he segregated with microscopic care, though he occasionally permitted small particles of foreign substance to accompany the crumbs to the hoard in his palm.  He even deliberately added small, semi-hard woolly fluffs, that had come originally from the coat lining, and that had lain for long months in the bottoms of the pockets.

At the end of fifteen minutes he had the pipe part filled.  He lighted it from the camp fire, and sat forward on the blankets, toasting his moccasined feet and smoking parsimoniously.  When the pipe was finished he sat on, brooding into the dying flame of the fire.  Slowly the worry went out of his eyes and resolve came in.  Out of the chaos of his fortunes he had finally achieved a way.  But it was not a pretty way.  His face had become stern and wolfish, and the thin lips were drawn very tightly.

With resolve came action.  He pulled himself stiffly to his feet and proceeded to break camp.  He packed the rolled blankets, the frying-pan, rifle, and axe on the sled, and passed a lashing around the load.  Then he warmed his hands at the fire and pulled on his mittens.  He was foot-sore, and limped noticeably as he took his place at the head of the sled.  When he put the looped haul-rope over his shoulder, and leant his weight against it to start the sled, he winced.  His flesh was galled by many days of contact with the haul-rope.

The trail led along the frozen breast of the Yukon.  At the end of four hours he came around a bend and entered the town of Minto.  It was perched on top of a high earth bank in the midst of a clearing, and consisted of a road house, a saloon, and several cabins.  He left his sled at the door and entered the saloon.

“Enough for a drink?” he asked, laying an apparently empty gold sack upon the bar.

The barkeeper looked sharply at it and him, then set out a bottle and a glass.

“Never mind the dust,” he said.

“Go on and take it,” Morganson insisted.

The barkeeper held the sack mouth downward over the scales and shook it, and a few flakes of gold dust fell out.  Morganson took the sack from him, turned it inside out, and dusted it carefully.