“There ain’t any skirts back of us.  Best’s outfit was the last to leave Linderman.  There won’t be any more till after the freeze-up.”

“Eh bien!  Den I s’pose I do de bes’ I can.  She’s poor seeck gal in beeg, cold countree wit’ no frien’s, no money—­”

“No money?” Broad was startled.  “Why, Sam was ‘fat’!  He had a bank-roll—­”

“He lose five t’ousan’ dollar’ playin’ card las’ night.  Less ’n eighty dollar’ dey lef’ him.  Eighty dollar’ an’—­dis.”  From the pocket of his mackinaw ’Poleon drew Kirby’s revolver, that famous single-action six-shooter, the elaborate ivory grip of which was notched in several places.  Broad and his partner eyed the weapon with intense interest.

“That’s Agnes, all right!” the former declared.  “And that’s where old Sam kept his books.”  He ran his thumb-nail over the significant file-marks on the handle.  “Looks like an alligator had bit it.”

Bridges was even more deeply impressed by the announcement of Kirby’s losses than was his partner.  “Sam must of been easy pickin’, drunk like that.  He was a gamblin’ fool when he was right, but I s’pose he couldn’t think of nothin’ except fresh meat for Agnes.  Letty had him tagged proper, and I bet she’d of saved him if she hadn’t of gone off her nut.  D’you think she’s got a chance?”

“For get well?” ’Poleon shrugged his wide shoulders.  “De doctor say it’s goin’ be hard pull.  He’s goin’ stay so long he can, den—­ wal, mebbe ’noder doctor come along.  I hope so.”

“If she does win out, then what?” Broad inquired.

‘Poleon considered the question.  “I s’pose I tak’ her back to Dyea an’ send her home.  I got some dog.”

Lucky studied the speaker curiously; there was a peculiar hostile gleam in his small, colorless eyes.  “Medicine every hour, and a steady fire, you say.  You don’t figger to get much sleep, do you?”

“Non.  No.  But me, I’m strong feller; I can sleep hangin’ up by de ear if I got to.”

“What’s the big idea?”

“Eh?” Doret was frankly puzzled.  “Wat you mean, ’beeg idea’?”

“What d’you expect to get out of all this?”

“M’sieu’!” The French Canadian’s face flushed, he raised his head and met the gaze of the two men.  There was an air of dignity about him as he said:  “Dere’s plenty t’ing in dis worl’ we don’ get pay’ for.  You didn’t ’spect no pay yesterday when you run de W’ite ‘Orse for save dis gal an’ her papa, did you?  No.  Wal, I’m woodsman, river-man; I ain’t dam’ stampeder.  Dis is my countree, we’re frien’s together long tam; I love it an’ it loves me.  I love de birds and hanimals, an’ dey’re frien’s wit’ me also.  ’Bout spring-tam, w’en de grub she’s short, de Canada jays dey come to visit me, an’ I feed dem; sometam’ I fin’ dere’s groun-squirrel’s nest onder my tent, an’ mebbe mister squirrel creep out of his hole, t’inkin’ summer is come.  Dat feller he’s hongry; he steal my food an’ he set ’longside my stove for eat him.  You t’ink I hurt dose he’pless li’l t’ing?  You s’pose I mak’ dem pay for w’at dey eat?”