Having crossed the high barrens, Phillips and his companion dropped down to timber-line and soon arrived at Linderman, their journey’s end.  This was perhaps the most feverishly busy camp on the entire thirty-mile Dyea trail, but, unlike the coast towns, there was no merrymaking, no gaiety, no gambling here.  Linderman’s fever came from overwork, not from overplay.  A tent village had sprung up at the head of the lake, and from dawn until dark it echoed to the unceasing sound of ax and hammer, of plane and saw.  The air was redolent with the odor of fresh-cut spruce and of boiling tar, for this was the shipyard where an army of Jasons hewed and joined and fitted, each upon a bark of his own making.  Half-way down the lake was the Boundary, and a few miles below that again was the customs station with its hateful red-jacketed police.  Beyond were uncharted waters, quite as perilous, because quite as unknown, as those traversed by that first band of Argonauts.  Deep lakes, dark canons, roaring rapids lay between Linderman and the land of the Golden Fleece, but the nearer these men approached those dangers the more eagerly they pressed on.

Already the weeding-out process had gone far and the citizens of Linderman were those who had survived it.  The weak and the irresolute had disappeared long since; these fellows who labored so mightily to forestall the coming winter were the strong and the fit and the enduring—­the kind the North takes to herself.

In spite of his light pack, Phillips’ elderly trailmate was all but spent.  He dragged his feet, he stumbled without reason, the lines in his face were deeply set, and his bearded lips had retreated from his teeth in a grin of exhaustion.

“Yonder’s the tent,” he said, finally, and his tone was eloquent of relief.

In and out among canvas walls and taut guy-ropes the travelers wound their way, emerging at length upon a gravelly beach where vast supplies of provisions were cached.  All about, in various stages of construction, were skeletons of skiffs, of scows, and of barges; the ground was spread with a carpet of shavings and sawdust.

Pierce’s companion paused; then, after an incredulous stare, he said:  “Look!  Is that smoke coming from my stovepipe?”

“Why, yes!”

There could be no mistake about it; from the tent in question arose the plain evidence that a lively fire was burning inside.

“Well, I’ll be darned!” breathed the elder man.  “Somebody’s jumped the cache.”

“Perhaps your partner—­”

“He’s in Sheep Camp.”  The speaker laboriously loosened his pack and let it fall, then with stiff, clumsy fingers he undid the top buttons of his vest and, to Pierce’s amazement, produced a large-calibered revolver, which he mechanically cocked and uncocked several times, the while his eyes remained hypnotically fixed upon the telltale streamer of smoke.  Not only did his action appear to be totally uncalled for, but he himself had undergone a startling transformation and Phillips was impelled to remonstrate.