Early in the morning, when he wearily went forth in quest of breakfast and a bed, he learned that the game at the Ophir was still going on.

“I want you to hire enough packers to take this stuff over in one trip—­two at the most.  Engage all you can.  Offer any price.”  The Countess was speaking.  She had snatched a few hours’ sleep and was now back at the hotel as fresh as ever.

“You must take more rest,” Pierce told her.  “You’ll wear yourself out at this rate.”

She smiled brightly and shook her head, but he persisted.  “Go back to sleep and let me attend to the work.  I’m strong; nothing tires me.”

“Nor me.  I’ll rest when we get to Dawson.  Have those packers here day after to-morrow morning.”

There were numerous freighters in Dyea, outfits with animals, too, some of them, but inquiry developed the fact that none were free to accept a contract of this size at such short notice, therefore Pierce went to the Indian village and asked for the chief.  Failing to discover the old man, he began a tent-to-tent search, and while so engaged he stumbled upon Joe McCaskey.

The outcast was lying on a bed of boughs; his face was flushed and his eyes were bright with fever.  Evidently, in avoiding the town he had sought shelter here and the natives had taken him in without question.

Overcoming his first impulse to quietly withdraw, Pierce bent down to the fellow and said, with genuine pity:  “I’m sorry for you, Joe.  Is there anything I can do?”

McCaskey stared up at him wildly; then a light of recognition kindled in his black eyes.  It changed to that baleful gleam of hatred.  His hair lay low upon his forehead and through it he glared.  His face was covered with a smut of beard which made him even more repellent.

“I thought you were Jim,” he croaked.  “But Jim’s—­dead.”

“You’re sick.  Can I help you?  Do you want money or—­”

“Jim’s dead,” the man repeated.  “You killed him!”

“I?  Nonsense.  Don’t talk—­”

“You killed him.  You!” McCaskey’s unblinking stare became positively venomous; he showed his teeth in a frightful grin.  “You killed him.  But there’s more of us.  Plenty more.  We’ll get you.”  He appeared to derive a ferocious enjoyment from this threat, for he dwelt upon it.  He began to curse his visitor so foully that Pierce backed out of the tent and let the flap fall.  It had been an unwelcome encounter; it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

As he went on in search of the village shaman he heard Joe muttering:  “Jim’s dead!  Dead!  Jim’s dead!”

CHAPTER VII