he had prepared and eaten his lunch he seated himself before his
panning-tub, a square box half filled with water melted from the creek
ice, and began the process of testing his prospect.

Having worked down the gravel and sediment to a half-handful, he spread
it with a movement of his wrists, leaving stranded at the tail of the
black sand a few specks of yellow. These he eyed for a moment before
washing them away.

"Too light--as usual," he said, aloud. The dogs stirred and raised their
heads. "Always pretty near, but not quite. But it's here, somewhere, and
I'll get it if I can last out this damned silence. That rim-rock didn't
lie. And old Pitka didn't lie, either. Nobody lies except--women." He
scowled at some remembrance, his whole face retreated behind a bristling
mask of ferocity. He sat motionless over the tub of muddy water until
the fire died out of the stove and the chill warned him that it was time
to resume work.

For many weeks--how many McGill neither knew nor cared--he had pursued
the routine of his search. He had penetrated this valley alone, unseen,
in the late autumn, and every day since then he had labored steadily,
mechanically, almost without physical sensation, for all feeling was
centered in his memory, which never gave him time to consider his
surroundings. Spring was coming now--the sun was already peeping over
the southern hills in the middle of its daily journey--and during this
time there had been but two interruptions which had roused him from his
apathy. One had occurred when, in quest of fresh meat, he had discovered
that he had neighbors ten miles to the west. He had seen their camp from
the divide, then had turned and slunk away, cursing them for intruding
upon his privacy. The other was when a herd of caribou had crossed. At
that time he had given brief rein to his desire to kill, seeing ahead of
his sights the face of the man who had sent him into the wilderness. He
could have bagged half the herd, but checked himself in time, realizing
that it was not Barclay at whom he leveled his rifle, but defenseless
animals, the carcasses of which were useless.

Barclay! The name maddened McGill. He wondered dully why he continued to
work so steadily when Barclay had robbed him of the need for gold. The
answer to this, he supposed, was easier than the answer to those other
questions that forever troubled him--he had to do something or die of
his thoughts, and he knew no other work than this.