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Updated: June 6, 2025
"Sure, an' what's more, all Forty Mile, exceptin' me an' a few cripples." "And drunks," added Kink Mitchell. "No-sir-ee!" the old man shouted emphatically. "I bet you the drinks Honkins ain't in on it!" Hootchinoo Bill cried with certitude. Ol' Jim's face lighted up. "I takes you, Bill, an' you loses." "However did that ol' soak budge out of Forty Mile?" Mitchell demanded.
Mosquitoes buzzed, robins sang, and moose birds tripped hungrily among the cabins; but there was no human life nor sign of human life. "I'm just dyin' for a drink," Hootchinoo Bill said and unconsciously his voice sank to a hoarse whisper. His partner nodded his head, loth to hear his own voice break the stillness. They trudged on in uneasy silence till surprised by an open door.
The water was muddy, and, with the pan buried in it, they could see nothing of its contents. Suddenly he lifted the pan clear and sent the water out of it with a flirt. A mass of yellow, like butter in a churn, showed across the bottom. Hootchinoo Bill swallowed. Never in his life had he dreamed of so rich a test-pan. "Kind of thick, my friend," he said huskily.
The partners looked at each other. "Gosh darn my buttoms!" said Hootchinoo Bill. "Seems likes you and me, Kink, is the kind of folks always caught out with forks when it rains soup." "Wouldn't it take the saleratus out your dough, now?" said Kink Mitchell. "A stampede of tin-horns, drunks, an' loafers." "An' squaw-men," added Bill. "Not a genooine miner in the whole caboodle."
"Most like he didn't hear Gabriel tootin'," was Hootchinoo Bill's suggestion. "Hello, Jim! Wake up!" he shouted. The old man unlimbered lamely, blinking his eyes and murmuring automatically: "What'll ye have, gents? What'll ye have?" They followed him inside and ranged up against the long bar where of yore a half-dozen nimble bar-keepers found little time to loaf.
No steamboats lay at the bank, no canoes, nor scows, nor poling-boats. The river was as bare of craft as the town was of life. "Kind of looks like Gabriel's tooted his little horn, and you an' me has turned up missing," remarked Hootchinoo Bill. His remark was casual, as though there was nothing unusual about the occurrence.
"Don't mind me, my friend," Hootchinoo Bill hiccoughed, his hand upon Ans Handerson's shoulder. "Have another drink. We're just celebratin' Kink's birthday here. This is my pardner, Kink, Kink Mitchell. An' what might your name be?"
But by now he was dreaming deeply, and he proclaimed he would have the whole claim or nothing. This was the cause of great pain to Hootchinoo Bill. He orated grandly against the "hawgishness" of chechaquos and Swedes, albeit he dozed between periods, his voice dying away to a gurgle, and his head sinking forward on his breast.
Ten minutes later Hootchinoo Bill and Kink Mitchell were roused from their blankets by a wild-eyed Swede that strove to force upon them an ink-scrawled and very blotty piece of paper. "Ay tank Ay take my money back," he gibbered. "Ay tank Ay take my money back." Tears were in his eyes and throat. They ran down his cheeks as he knelt before them and pleaded and implored.
But that depends on the point of view. Hard luck is a mild way of terming it so far as Kink Mitchell and Hootchinoo Bill are concerned; and that they have a decided opinion on the subject is a matter of common knowledge in the Yukon country. It was in the fall of 1896 that the two partners came down to the east bank of the Yukon, and drew a Peterborough canoe from a moss- covered cache.
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