"You bet!
You could a' made a straight, a straight flush, or a flush out of it."
"That's what I thought," Campbell said sadly.
"It cost me six thousand before I quit."
"I wisht you-all'd drawn," Daylight laughed.
"Then I wouldn't a' caught that fourth queen.
Now I've got to take Billy Rawlins' mail contract and mush for Dyea.
What's the size of the killing, Jack?"
Kearns attempted to count the pot, but was too excited.
Daylight drew it across to him, with firm fingers separating and stacking the markers and I.O.U.'s and with clear brain adding the sum.
"One hundred and twenty-seven thousand," he announced.
"You-all can sell out now, Jack, and head for home."
The winner smiled and nodded, but seemed incapable of speech.
"I'd shout the drinks," MacDonald said, "only the house don't belong to me any more."
"Yes, it does," Kearns replied, first wetting his lips with his tongue.
"Your note's good for any length of time.
But the drinks are on me."
"Name your snake-juice, you-all—the winner pays!" Daylight called out loudly to all about him, at the same time rising from his chair and catching the Virgin by the arm.
"Come on for a reel, you-all dancers.
The night's young yet, and it's Helen Breakfast and the mail contract for me in the morning.
Here, you-all Rawlins, you—I hereby do take over that same contract, and I start for salt water at nine A.M.—savvee?
Come on, you-all!
Where's that fiddler?"
CHAPTER III
It was Daylight's night.
He was the centre and the head of the revel, unquenchably joyous, a contagion of fun.
He multiplied himself, and in so doing multiplied the excitement.
No prank he suggested was too wild for his followers, and all followed save those that developed into singing imbeciles and fell warbling by the wayside.
Yet never did trouble intrude.
It was known on the Yukon that when Burning Daylight made a night of it, wrath and evil were forbidden.
On his nights men dared not quarrel.
In the younger days such things had happened, and then men had known what real wrath was, and been man-handled as only Burning Daylight could man-handle.
On his nights men must laugh and be happy or go home.
Daylight was inexhaustible.
In between dances he paid over to Kearns the twenty thousand in dust and transferred to him his Moosehide claim.
Likewise he arranged the taking over of Billy Rawlins' mail contract, and made his preparations for the start.
He despatched a messenger to rout out Kama, his dog-driver—a Tananaw Indian, far-wandered from his tribal home in the service of the invading whites.
Kama entered the Tivoli, tall, lean, muscular, and fur-clad, the pick of his barbaric race and barbaric still, unshaken and unabashed by the revellers that rioted about him while Daylight gave his orders.
"Um," said Kama, tabling his instructions on his fingers.
"Get um letters from Rawlins.
Load um on sled.
Grub for Selkirk—you think um plenty dog-grub stop Selkirk?"
"Plenty dog-grub, Kama."
"Um, bring sled this place nine um clock.
Bring um snowshoes.
No bring um tent.
Mebbe bring um fly? um little fly?"
"No fly," Daylight answered decisively.
"Um much cold."
"We travel light—savvee?