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Updated: June 18, 2025
They kept in condition, but each night crawled well tired into their sleeping-furs. This was their sixth day out from the lively camp of Mucluc on the Yukon. In two days, with the loaded sled, they had covered the fifty miles of packed trail up Moose Creek.
He was a mere wobbling automaton, supported affectionately and precariously by his two business associates. They took the path down by the bank of the Yukon. Home did not lie that way, but the elusive idea did. Mucluc Charley giggled over the idea that he could not catch for the edification of Leclaire. They came to where Siskiyou Pearly's boat lay moored to the bank.
O'Brien slipped from their arms to a sitting posture on the stoop, where he slept gently. Mucluc Charley chased the elusive idea through all the nooks and crannies of his drowning consciousness. Leclaire hung fascinated upon the delayed utterance. Suddenly the other's hand smote him on the back. "Got it!" Mucluc Charley cried in stentorian tones.
"Sure, an' we can't throw 'm down," Shorty agreed. "An' we got two nasty jobs cut out for us, each just about twicet as nasty as the other. One of us has got to make a run of it to Mucluc an' raise a relief. The other has to stay here an' run the hospital an' most likely be eaten.
At this moment the kitchen door opened for an instant, and Curly Jim shouted, "Go home!" "Funny," said Mucluc Charley. "Shame idea very shame as mine. Le's go home." They gathered O'Brien up between them and started. Mucluc Charley began aloud the pursuit of another idea. Leclaire followed the pursuit with enthusiasm. But O'Brien did not follow it. He neither heard, nor saw, nor knew anything.
"I got it!" he cried jubilantly. "Supposen there's slathers more'n ten thousand dollars in that hole!" O'Brien, who apparently was all ready to close the bargain, switched about. "Great!" he cried. "Splen'd idea. Never thought of it all by myself." He took Mucluc Charley warmly by the hand. "Good frien'! Good 's'ciate!" He turned belligerently on Curly Jim.
Just now he was a dog-musher and freighter, charging twenty-eight cents a pound for the winter haul from Sixty Mile to Mucluc and for bacon thirty-three cents, as was the custom. His poke was fat with dust. He had the price of many drinks. Yet no barkeeper would serve him. Whiskey, the hottest, swiftest, completest gratifier of civilization, was not for him.
"Hold on there!" spluttered Mucluc Charley, whose tongue was beginning to wag loosely and trip over itself. "As your father confessor there I go as your brother O hell!" He paused and collected himself for another start.
That's four hundred pounds a day, and, with the old people and the children, five days is the quickest time we can bring them into Mucluc. Now what are you going to do?" "Take up a collection to buy all the grub," said the craps-player. "I'll stand for the grub," Smoke began impatiently. "Nope," the other interrupted. "This ain't your treat. We're all in. Fetch a wash-basin somebody.
Me? sell for ten thousand dollars! No indeed. I'll dig the gold myself, an' then I'm goin' down to God's country Southern California that's the place for me to end my declinin' days an' then I'll start . . . as I said before, then I'll start . . . what did I say I was goin' to start?" "Ostrich farm," Mucluc Charley volunteered. "Sure, just what I'm goin' to start."
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