scrapin', why, there y'are--fill up and come again.
If not, divil the harm done. So here's thumbs up to go, say I. But I
wish, Lawless, I wish that I'd niver known how Jo wint off, an' I wish
we were all t'gither agin, as down in the Pipi Valley."

"There's nothing stands in this world, Shon, but the faith of comrades
and the truth of good women. The rest hangs by a hair. I'll go to the
valley with you. It's many a day since I washed my luck in a gold-pan."

"I will take you there," said Pourcette, suddenly rising, and, with
shy abrupt motions grasping their hands and immediately letting them go
again. "I will take you to-morrow." Then he spread skins upon the floor,
put wood upon the fire, and the three were soon asleep.

The next morning, just as the sun came laboriously over the white peak
of a mountain, and looked down into the great gulch beneath the hut, the
three started. For many hours they crept along the side of the mountain,
then came slowly down upon pine-crested hills, and over to where a small
plain stretched out. It was Pourcette's little farm. Its position was
such that it caught the sun always, and was protected from the north and
east winds. Tall shafts of Indian corn with their yellow tassels were
still standing, and the stubble of the field where the sickle had been
showed in the distance like a carpet of gold. It seemed strange to
Lawless that this old man beside him should be thus peaceful in his
habits, the most primitive and arcadian of farmers, and yet one
whose trade was blood--whose one purpose in life was destruction and
vengeance.

They pushed on. Towards the end of the day they came upon a little herd
of caribou, and had excellent sport. Lawless noticed that Pourcette
seemed scarcely to take any aim at all, so swift and decisive was his
handling of the gun. They skinned the deer and cached them, and took up
the journey again. For four days they travelled and hunted alternately.
Pourcette had shot two mountain lions, but they had seen no pumas.

On the morning of the fifth day they came upon the valley where the gold
was. There was no doubt about it. A beautiful little stream ran through
it, and its bed was sprinkled with gold--a goodly sight to a poor man
like Shon, interesting enough to Lawless. For days, while Lawless and
Pourcette hunted, Shon laboured like a galley-slave, making the little
specks into piles, and now and again crowning a pile with a nugget. The
fever of the hunter h