That frozen muck and gravel'll stand till hell is froze and its mill-tails is turned to ice-cream.
Why, they'll be working pay-streaks a hundred feet deep in them days that's comin'.
I'm sure going along with you-all, Elijah."
Elijah laughed, gathered his two partners up, and was making a second attempt to reach the door.
"Hold on," Daylight called.
"I sure mean it."
The three men turned back suddenly upon him, in their faces surprise, delight, and incredulity.
"G'wan, you're foolin'," said Finn, the other lumberjack, a quiet, steady, Wisconsin man.
"There's my dawgs and sled," Daylight answered.
"That'll make two teams and halve the loads—though we-all'll have to travel easy for a spell, for them dawgs is sure tired."
The three men were overjoyed, but still a trifle incredulous.
"Now look here," Joe Hines blurted out, "none of your foolin, Daylight.
We mean business.
Will you come?"
Daylight extended his hand and shook.
"Then you'd best be gettin' to bed," Elijah advised.
"We're mushin' out at six, and four hours' sleep is none so long."
"Mebbe we ought to lay over a day and let him rest up," Finn suggested.
Daylight's pride was touched.
"No you don't," he cried.
"We all start at six.
What time do you-all want to be called?
Five?
All right, I'll rouse you-all out."
"You oughter have some sleep," Elijah counselled gravely.
"You can't go on forever."
Daylight was tired, profoundly tired.
Even his iron body acknowledged weariness.
Every muscle was clamoring for bed and rest, was appalled at continuance of exertion and at thought of the trail again.
All this physical protest welled up into his brain in a wave of revolt.
But deeper down, scornful and defiant, was Life itself, the essential fire of it, whispering that all Daylight's fellows were looking on, that now was the time to pile deed upon deed, to flaunt his strength in the face of strength.
It was merely Life, whispering its ancient lies. And in league with it was whiskey, with all its consummate effrontery and vain-glory.
"Mebbe you-all think I ain't weaned yet?" Daylight demanded.
"Why, I ain't had a drink, or a dance, or seen a soul in two months.
You-all get to bed.
I'll call you-all at five."
And for the rest of the night he danced on in his stocking feet, and at five in the morning, rapping thunderously on the door of his new partners' cabin, he could be heard singing the song that had given him his name:—
"Burning daylight, you-all Stewart River hunchers!
Burning daylight!
Burning daylight! Burning daylight!"
CHAPTER VII
This time the trail was easier.
It was better packed, and they were not carrying mail against time. The day's run was shorter, and likewise the hours on trail.
On his mail run Daylight had played out three Indians; but his present partners knew that they must not be played out when they arrived at the Stewart bars, so they set the slower pace.
And under this milder toil, where his companions nevertheless grew weary, Daylight recuperated and rested up.
At Forty Mile they laid over two days for the sake of the dogs, and at Sixty Mile Daylight's team was left with the trader.
Unlike Daylight, after the terrible run from Selkirk to Circle City, they had been unable to recuperate on the back trail.
So the four men pulled on from Sixty Mile with a fresh team of dogs on Daylight's sled.
The following night they camped in the cluster of islands at the mouth of the Stewart.
Daylight talked town sites, and, though the others laughed at him, he staked the whole maze of high, wooded islands.