“Your full month isn’t up, Smoke,” Sprague said.  “But here it is in full.  I wish you luck.”

“How about the agreement?” Kit asked.  “You know there’s a famine here.  A man can’t get work in the mines even, unless he has his own grub.  You agreed—­”

“I know of no agreement,” Sprague interrupted.  “Do you, Stine?  We engaged you by the month.  There’s your pay.  Will you sign the receipt?”

Kit’s hands clenched, and for the moment he saw red.  Both men shrank away from him.  He had never struck a man in anger in his life, and he felt so certain of his ability to thrash Sprague that he could not bring himself to do it.

Shorty saw his trouble and interposed.

“Look here, Smoke, I ain’t travelin’ no more with a ornery outfit like this.  Right here’s where I sure jump it.  You an’ me stick together.  Savvy?  Now, you take your blankets an’ hike down to the Elkhorn.  Wait for me.  I’ll settle up, collect what’s comin’, an’ give them what’s comin’.  I ain’t no good on the water, but my feet’s on terry-fermy now an’ I’m sure goin’ to make smoke.”

. . . . .

Half an hour afterwards Shorty appeared at the Elkhorn.  From his bleeding knuckles and the skin off one cheek, it was evident that he had given Stine and Sprague what was coming.

“You ought to see that cabin,” he chuckled, as they stood at the bar.  “Rough-house ain’t no name for it.  Dollars to doughnuts nary one of ‘em shows up on the street for a week.  An’ now it’s all figgered out for you an’ me.  Grub’s a dollar an’ a half a pound.  They ain’t no work for wages without you have your own grub.  Moose-meat’s sellin’ for two dollars a pound an’ they ain’t none.  We got enough money for a month’s grub an’ ammunition, an’ we hike up the Klondike to the back country.  If they ain’t no moose, we go an’ live with the Indians.  But if we ain’t got five thousand pounds of meat six weeks from now, I’ll—­I’ll sure go back an’ apologize to our bosses.  Is it a go?”

Kit’s hand went out, and they shook.  Then he faltered.  “I don’t know anything about hunting,” he said.

Shorty lifted his glass.

“But you’re a sure meat-eater, an’ I’ll learn you.”

III.  THE STAMPEDE TO SQUAW CREEK.

Two months after Smoke Bellew and Shorty went after moose for a grub-stake, they were back in the Elkhorn saloon at Dawson.  The hunting was done, the meat hauled in and sold for two dollars and a half a pound, and between them they possessed three thousand dollars in gold dust and a good team of dogs.  They had played in luck.  Despite the fact that the gold-rush had driven the game a hundred miles or more into the mountains, they had, within half that distance, bagged four moose in a narrow canyon.

The mystery of the strayed animals was no greater than the luck of their killers, for within the day four famished Indian families, reporting no game in three days’ journey back, camped beside them.  Meat was traded for starving dogs, and after a week of feeding, Smoke and Shorty harnessed the animals and began freighting the meat to the eager Dawson market.