man who evinced no concern at what was going on was David
Drennen. His calm was like that of a chip caught and held motionless
for a little in the centre of a whirlpool while scores of other chips
gyrated madly about him; himself the pivot about which all rotated
while he seemed unmoved. There were hundreds of sharp-eyed old
prospectors looking for the thing he had found; if they in turn found
it it would become theirs and be lost to him.

The Settlement saw more strangers in a week than it had ever seen in
the days of its existence before. The rare opportunity was given to
take stock first hand of men of whom it had talked many times, men
whose names meant something. Such a man was Charlie Madden with the
fresh cheeks and the way of an old captain of industry. Such was the
man who came in behalf of the northwestern company. A man between
fifty and sixty, big bodied, stalwart, stern faced, silent tongued. An
old prospector from the outside put an end to much speculation by
informing a knot of men that this was old Marshall Sothern; the name
carried weight and brought fresh interest. Such a man was Ben
Hasbrook, little and dried up and nervous mannered, a power in the
network of ramifications of a big corporation having its head in
Quebec, its tail in Vancouver, its claws everywhere throughout Canada.
These men spelled big interests; these were the lions come to wrest
away the prey which the pack of wolves was ravening for.

Ben Hasbrook trod almost in Charlie Madden's footsteps going to
Drennen; he came away almost immediately, tugging at his beard,
hot-eyed and wrathful. Marshall Sothern, having had a word with Pere
Marquette, a word with Lunch Counter Joe, having seen Hasbrook's
retreat, frowned thoughtfully and postponed any interview he may have
desired with No-luck Drennen. He paid for a room at Joe's for a week
in advance, went into solitary session, smoking his blackened pipe
thoughtfully, his powerful fingers beating a long tattoo upon the sill
of the window through which his eyes could find Drennen's dugout. With
full square beard, iron grey hair, massive countenance, there was
something leonine about Marshall Sothern. It appeared reasonable that
if he were going into the battle against Madden and Hasbrook, then
Madden and Hasbrook would need their wits about them. He seemed at
once gifted with infinite patience and unalterable will. He did not
move from his window until he had seen David Drenne