cabins of trappers, and old-time prospectors who may be found in the hills about the head- waters of any placer creek, hammering and chipping their lives away in vain search for that will-o'-the-wisp of the prospector's dreams—the mother lode.

Possibly twenty white men, all told, and a band of half-starved Indians, who dwelt near the head waters, comprised the population of Cameron Creek—and these were they who enjoyed, and encouraged the disrepute into which the valley had fallen. For the trappers of fur desire solitude and bear no love for the miners, whose noisy camps, detonating blasts, and creaking windlasses drive the fur-bearers to the fastness of far hills. The lean, distant-eyed prospectors for the mother lode desire solitude. And the Indians upon the head-waters—well, nobody cares what they desire. So Cameron Creek enjoyed her unsavoury repute.

"What was Bill Cosgrieve doing in Dawson?" asked Connie, as the big Sergeant showed no disposition to further enlighten him.

"Spendin' money."

"Wonder if he's made a strike. Guess not, though. When Cameron Creek blew up, she blew right."