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? we carry plenty letters out, plenty letters back. you are strong man. plenty cold, plenty travel, all right."

"sure all right," kama muttered, with resignation.

"much cold, no care a damn. um ready nine um clock."

he turned on his moccasined heel and walked out, imperturbable, sphinx-like, neither giving nor receiving greetings nor looking to right or left. the virgin led daylight away into a corner.

"look here, daylight," she said, in a low voice, "you're busted."

"higher'n a kite."

"i've eight thousand in mac's safe—" she began.

but daylight interrupted. the apron-string loomed near and he shied like an unbroken colt.

"it don't matter," he said. "busted i came into the world, busted i go out, and i've been busted most of the time since i arrived. come on; let's waltz."

"but listen," she urged. "my money's doing nothing. i could lend it to you—a grub-stake," she added hurriedly, at sight of the alarm in his face.

"nobody grub-stakes me," was the answer. "i stake myself, and when i make a killing it's sure all mine. no thank you, old girl. much obliged. i'll get my stake by running the mail out and in."

"daylight," she murmured, in tender protest.

but with a sudden well-assumed ebullition of spirits he drew her toward the dancing-floor, and as they swung around and around in a waltz she pondered on the iron heart of the man who held her in his arms and resisted all her wiles.

at six the next morning, scorching with whiskey, yet ever himself, he stood at the bar putting every man's hand down. the way of it was that two men faced each other across a corner, their right elbows resting on the bar, their right hands gripped together, while each strove to press the other's hand down. man after man came against him, but no man put his hand down, even olaf henderson and french louis failing despite their hugeness. when they contended it was a trick, a trained muscular knack, he challenged them to another test.

"look here, you-all" he cried. "i'm going to do two things: first, weigh my sack; and second, bet it that after you-all have lifted clean from the floor all the sacks of flour you-all are able, i'll put on two more sacks and lift the whole caboodle clean."

"by gar! ah take dat!" french louis rumbled above the cheers.

"hold on!" olaf henderson cried. "i ban yust as good as you, louis. i yump half that bet."

put on the scales, daylight's sack was found to balance an even four hundred dollars, and louis and olaf divided the bet between them. fifty-pound sacks of flour were brought in from macdonald's cache. other men tested their strength first. they straddled on two chairs, the flour sacks beneath them on the floor and held together by rope-lashings. many of the men were able, in this manner, to lift four or five hundred pounds, while some succeeded with as high as six hundred. then the two giants took a hand, tying at seven hundred. french louis then added another sack, and swung seven hundred and fifty clear. olaf duplicated the performance, whereupon both failed to clear eight hundred. again and again they strove, their foreheads beaded with sweat, their frames crackling with the effort. both were able to shift the weight and to bump it, but clear the floor with it they could not.

"by gar! daylight, dis tam you mek one beeg meestake," french louis said, straightening up and stepping down from the chairs. "only one damn iron man can do dat. one hundred pun' more—my frien', not ten poun' more." the sacks were unlashed, but when two sacks were added, kearns interfered. "only one sack more."

"two!" some one cried. "two was the bet."

"they didn't lift that last sack," kearns protested.

"they only lifted seven hundred and fifty."

but daylight grandly brushed aside the confusion.

"what's the good of you-all botherin' around that way? what's one more sack? if i can't lift three more, i sure can't lift two. put 'em in."

he stood upon the chairs, squatted, and bent his shoulders down till his hands closed on the rope. he shifted his feet slightly, tautened his muscles with a tentative pull, then relaxed again, questing for a perfect adjustment of all the levers of his body.

french louis, looking on sceptically, cried out,

"pool lak hell, daylight! pool lak hell!"

daylight's muscles tautened a second time, and this time in earnest, until steadily all the energy of his splendid body was applied, and quite imperceptibly, without jerk or strain, the bulky nine hundred pounds rose from the door and swung back and forth, pendulum like, between his legs.

olaf henderson sighed a vast audible sigh. the virgin, who had tensed unconsciously till her muscles hurt her, relaxed. while french louis murmured reverently:—

"m'sieu daylight, salut! ay am one beeg baby. you are one beeg man."

daylight dropped his burden, leaped to the floor, and headed for the bar.

"weigh in!" he cried, tossing his sack to the weigher, who transferred to it four hundred dollars from the sacks of the two losers.

"surge up, everybody!" daylight went on. "name your snake-juice! the winner pays!"

"this is my night!" he was shouting, ten minutes later. "i'm the lone he-wolf, and i've seen thirty winters. this is my birthday, my one day in the year, and i can put any man on his back. come on, you-all! i'm going to put you-all in the snow. come on, you chechaquos [1] and sourdoughs[2], and get your baptism!"

the rout streamed out of doors, all save the barkeepers and the singing bacchuses. some fleeting thought of saving his own dignity entered macdonald's head, for he approached daylight with outstretched hand.

"what? you first?" daylight laughed, clasping the other's hand as if in greeting.

"no, no," the other hurriedly disclaimed. "just congratulations on your birthday. of course you can put me in the snow. what chance have i against a man that lifts nine hundred pounds?"

macdonald weighed one hundred and eighty pounds, and daylight had him gripped solely by his hand; yet, by a sheer abrupt jerk, he took the saloon-keeper off his feet and flung him face downward in the snow. in quick succession, seizing the men nearest him, he threw half a dozen more. resistance was useless. they flew helter-skelter out of his grips, landing in all manner of attitudes, grotesquely and harmlessly, in the soft snow. it soon became difficult, in the dim starlight, to distinguish between those thrown and those waiting their turn, and he began feeling their backs and shoulders, determining their status by whether or not he found them powdered with snow.

"baptized yet?" became his stereotyped question, as he reached out his terrible hands.

several score lay down in the snow in a long row, while many others knelt in mock humility, scooping snow upon their heads and claiming the rite accomplished. but a group of five stood upright, backwoodsmen and frontiersmen, they, eager to contest any man's birthday.

graduates of the hardest of man-handling schools, veterans of multitudes of rough-and-tumble battles, men of blood and sweat and endurance, they nevertheless lacked one thing that daylight possessed in high degree—namely, an almost perfect brain and muscular coordination. it was simple, in its way, and no virtue of his. he had been born with this endowment. his nerves carried messages more quickly than theirs; his mental processes, culminating in acts of will, were quicker than theirs; his muscles themselves, by some immediacy of chemistry, obeyed the messages of his will quicker than theirs. he was so made, his muscles were high-power explosives. the levers of his body snapped into play like the jaws of steel traps. and in addition to all this, his was that super-strength that is the dower of but one human in millions—a strength depending not on size but on degree, a supreme organic excellence residing in the stuff of the muscles themselves. thus, so swiftly could he apply a stress, that, before an opponent could become aware and resist, the aim of the stress had been accomplished. in turn, so swiftly did he become aware of a stress applied to him, that he saved himself by resistance or by delivering a lightning counter-stress.

"it ain't no use you-all standing there," daylight addressed the waiting group. "you-all might as well get right down and take your baptizing. you-all might down me any other day in the year, but on my birthday i want you-all to know i'm the best man. is that pat hanrahan's mug looking hungry and willing? come on, pat." pat hanrahan, ex-bare-knuckle-prize fighter and roughhouse-expert, stepped forth. the two men came against each other in grips, and almost before he had exerted himself the irishman found himself in the merciless vise of a half-nelson that buried him head and shoulders in the snow. joe hines, ex-lumber-jack, came down with an impact equal to a fall from a two-story building—his overthrow accomplished by a cross-buttock, delivered, he claimed, before he was ready.

there was nothing exhausting in all this to daylight. he did not heave and strain through long minutes. no time, practically, was occupied. his body exploded abruptly and terrifically in one instant, and on the next instant was relaxed. thus, doc watson, the gray-bearded, iron bodied man without a past, a fighting terror himself, was overthrown in the fraction of a second preceding his own onslaught. as he was in the act of gathering himself for a spring, daylight was upon him, and with such fearful suddenness as to crush him backward and down. olaf henderson, receiving his cue from this, attempted to take daylight unaware, rushing upon him from one side as he stooped with extended hand to help doc watson up. daylight dropped on his hands and knees, receiving in his side olaf's knees. olaf's momentum carried him clear over the obstruction in a long, flying fall. before he could rise, daylight had whirled him over on his back and was rubbing his face and ears with snow and shoving handfuls down his neck. "ay ban yust as good a man as you ban, daylight," olaf spluttered, as he pulled himself to his feet; "but by yupiter, i ban navver see a grip like that." french louis was the last of the five, and he had seen enough to make him cautious. he circled and baffled for a full minute before coming to grips; and for another full minute they strained and reeled without either winning the advantage. and then, just as the contest was becoming interesting, daylight effected one of his lightning shifts, changing all stresses and leverages and at the same time delivering one of his muscular explosions. french louis resisted till his huge frame crackled, and then, slowly, was forced over and under and downward.

"the winner pays!" daylight cried; as he sprang to his feet and led the way back into the tivoli. "surge along you-all! this way to the snake-room!"

they lined up against the long bar, in places two or three deep, stamping the frost from their moccasined feet, for outside the temperature was sixty below. bettles, himself one of the gamest of the old-timers in deeds and daring ceased from his drunken lay of the "sassafras root," and titubated over to congratulate daylight. but in the midst of it he felt impelled to make a speech, and raised his voice oratorically.

"i tell you fellers i'm plum proud to call daylight my friend. we've hit the trail together afore now, and he's eighteen carat from his moccasins up, damn his mangy old hide, anyway. he was a shaver when he first hit this country. when you fellers was his age, you wa'n't dry behind the ears yet. he never was no kid. he was born a full-grown man. an' i tell you a man had to be a man in them days. this wa'n't no effete civilization like it's come to be now." bettles paused long enough to put his arm in a proper bear-hug around daylight's neck. "when you an' me mushed into the yukon in the good ole days, it didn't rain soup and they wa'n't no free-lunch joints. our camp fires was lit where we killed our game, and most of the time we lived on salmon-tracks and rabbit-bellies—ain't i right?"

but at the roar of laughter that greeted his inversion, bettles released the bear-hug and turned fiercely on them. "laugh, you mangy short-horns, laugh! but i tell you plain and simple, the best of you ain't knee-high fit to tie daylight's moccasin strings.

"ain't i right, campbell? ain't i right, mac? daylight's one of the old guard, one of the real sour-doughs. and in them days they wa'n't ary a steamboat or ary a trading-post, and we cusses had to live offen salmon-bellies and rabbit-tracks."

he gazed triumphantly around, and in the applause that followed arose cries for a speech from daylight. he signified his consent. a chair was brought, and he was helped to stand upon it. he was no more sober than the crowd above which he now towered—a wild crowd, uncouthly garmented, every foot moccasined or muc-lucked[3], with mittens dangling from necks and with furry ear-flaps raised so that they took on the seeming of the winged helmets of the norsemen. daylight's black eyes were flashing, and the flush of strong drink flooded darkly under the bronze of his cheeks. he was greeted with round on round of affectionate cheers, which brought a suspicious moisture to his eyes, albeit many of the voices were inarticulate and inebriate. and yet, men have so behaved since the world began, feasting, fighting, and carousing, whether in the dark cave-mouth or by the fire of the squatting-place, in the palaces of imperial rome and the rock strongholds of robber barons, or in the sky-aspiring hotels of modern times and in the boozing-dens of sailor-town. just so were these men, empire-builders in the arctic light, boastful and drunken and clamorous, winning surcease for a few wild moments from the grim reality of their heroic toil. modern heroes they, and in nowise different from the heroes of old time. "well, fellows, i don't know what to say to you-all," daylight began lamely, striving still to control his whirling brain. "i think i'll tell you-all a story. i had a pardner wunst, down in juneau. he come from north caroliney, and he used to tell this same story to me. it was down in the mountains in his country, and it was a wedding. there they was, the family and all the friends. the parson was just puttin' on the last touches, and he says, 'they as the lord have joined let no man put asunder.'

"'parson,' says the bridegroom, 'i rises to question your grammar in that there sentence. i want this weddin' done right.'

"when the smoke clears away, the bride she looks around and sees a dead parson, a dead bridegroom, a dead brother, two dead uncles, and five dead wedding-guests.

"so she heaves a mighty strong sigh and says, 'them new-fangled, self-cocking revolvers sure has played hell with my prospects.'

"and so i say to you-all," daylight added, as the roar of laughter died down, "that them four kings of jack kearns sure has played hell with my prospects. i'm busted higher'n a kite, and i'm hittin' the trail for dyea—"

"goin' out?" some one called. a spasm of anger wrought on his face for a flashing instant, but in the next his good-humor was back again.

"i know you-all are only pokin' fun asking such a question," he said, with a smile. "of course i ain't going out."

"take the oath again, daylight," the same voice cried.

"i sure will. i first come over chilcoot in '83. i went out over the pass in a fall blizzard, with a rag of a shirt and a cup of raw flour. i got my grub-stake in juneau that winter, and in the spring i went over the pass once more. and once more the famine drew me out. next spring i went in again, and i swore then that i'd never come out till i made my stake. well, i ain't made it, and here i am. and i ain't going out now. i get the mail and i come right back. i won't stop the night at dyea. i'll hit up chilcoot soon as i change the dogs and get the mail and grub. and so i swear once more, by the mill-tails of hell and the head of john the baptist, i'll never hit for the outside till i make my pile. and i tell you-all, here and now, it's got to be an almighty big pile."

"how much might you call a pile?" bettles demanded from beneath, his arms clutched lovingly around daylight's legs.

"yes, how much? what do you call a pile?" others cried.

daylight steadied himself for a moment and debated. "four or five millions," he said slowly, and held up his hand for silence as his statement was received with derisive yells. "i'll be real conservative, and put the bottom notch at a million. and for not an ounce less'n that will i go out of the country."

again his statement was received with an outburst of derision. not only had the total gold output of the yukon up to date been below five millions, but no man had ever made a strike of a hundred thousand, much less of a million.

"you-all listen to me. you seen jack kearns get a hunch to-night. we had him sure beat before the draw. his ornery three kings was no good. but he just knew there was another king coming—that was his hunch—and he got it. and i tell you-all i got a hunch. there's a big strike coming on the yukon, and it's just about due. i don't mean no ornery moosehide, birch-creek kind of a strike. i mean a real rip-snorter hair-raiser. i tell you-all she's in the air and hell-bent for election. nothing can stop her, and she'll come up river. there's where you-all track my moccasins in the near future if you-all want to find me—somewhere in the country around stewart river, indian river, and klondike river. when i get back with the mail, i'll head that way so fast you-all won't see my trail for smoke. she's a-coming, fellows, gold from the grass roots down, a hundred dollars to the pan, and a stampede in from the outside fifty thousand strong. you-all'll think all hell's busted loose when that strike is made."

he raised his glass to his lips. "here's kindness, and hoping you-all will be in on it."

he drank and stepped down from the chair, falling into another one of bettles' bear-hugs.

"if i was you, daylight, i wouldn't mush to-day," joe hines counselled, coming in from consulting the spirit thermometer outside the door. "we're in for a good cold snap. it's sixty-two below now, and still goin' down. better wait till she breaks."

daylight laughed, and the old sour-doughs around him laughed.

"just like you short-horns," bettles cried, "afeard of a little frost. and blamed little you know daylight, if you think frost kin stop 'm."

"freeze his lungs if he travels in it," was the reply.

"freeze pap and lollypop! look here, hines, you only ben in this here country three years. you ain't seasoned yet. i've seen daylight do fifty miles up on the koyokuk on a day when the thermometer busted at seventy-two."

hines shook his head dolefully.

"them's the kind that does freeze their lungs," he lamented. "if daylight pulls out before this snap breaks, he'll never get through—an' him travelin' without tent or fly."

"it's a thousand miles to dyea," bettles announced, climbing on the chair and supporting his swaying body by an arm passed around daylight's neck. "it's a thousand miles, i'm sayin' an' most of the trail unbroke, but i bet any chechaquo—anything he wants—that daylight makes dyea in thirty days."

"that's an average of over thirty-three miles a day," doc watson warned, "and i've travelled some myself. a blizzard on chilcoot would tie him up for a week."

"yep," bettles retorted, "an' daylight'll do the second thousand back again on end in thirty days more, and i got five hundred dollars that says so, and damn the blizzards."

to emphasize his remarks, he pulled out a gold-sack the size of a bologna sausage and thumped it down on the bar. doc watson thumped his own sack alongside.

"hold on!" daylight cried. "bettles's right, and i want in on this. i bet five hundred that sixty days from now i pull up at the tivoli door with the dyea mail."

a sceptical roar went up, and a dozen men pulled out their sacks.

jack kearns crowded in close and caught daylight's attention.

"i take you, daylight," he cried. "two to one you don't—not in seventy-five days."

"no charity, jack," was the reply. "the bettin's even, and the time is sixty days."

"seventy-five days, and two to one you don't," kearns insisted. "fifty mile'll be wide open and the rim-ice rotten."

"what you win from me is yours," daylight went on. "and, by thunder, jack, you can't give it back that way. i won't bet with you. you're trying to give me money. but i tell you-all one thing, jack, i got another hunch. i'm goin' to win it back some one of these days. you-all just wait till the big strike up river. then you and me'll take the roof off and sit in a game that'll be full man's size. is it a go?"

they shook hands.

"of course he'll make it," kearns whispered in bettles' ear. "and there's five hundred daylight's back in sixty days," he added aloud.

billy rawlins closed with the wager, and bettles hugged kearns ecstatically.

"by yupiter, i ban take that bet," olaf henderson said, dragging daylight away from bettles and kearns.

"winner pays!" daylight shouted, closing the wager.

"and i'm sure going to win, and sixty days is a long time between drinks, so i pay now. name your brand, you hoochinoos! name your brand!"

bettles, a glass of whiskey in hand, climbed back on his chair, and swaying back and forth, sang the one song he knew:—

"o, it's henry ward beecher

and sunday-school teachers

all sing of the sassafras-root;

but you bet all the same,

if it had its right name

it's the juice of the forbidden fruit."

the crowd roared out the chorus:—

"but you bet all the same

if it had its right name

it's the juice of the forbidden fruit."

somebody opened the outer door. a vague gray light filtered in.

"burning daylight, burning daylight," some one called warningly.

daylight paused for nothing, heading for the door and pulling down his ear-flaps. kama stood outside by the sled, a long, narrow affair, sixteen inches wide and seven and a half feet in length, its slatted bottom raised six inches above the steel-shod runners. on it, lashed with thongs of moose-hide, were the light canvas bags that contained the mail, and the food and gear for dogs and men. in front of it, in a single line, lay curled five frost-rimed dogs. they were huskies, matched in size and color, all unusually large and all gray. from their cruel jaws to their bushy tails they were as like as peas in their likeness to timber-wolves. wolves they were, domesticated, it was true, but wolves in appearance and in all their characteristics. on top the sled load, thrust under the lashings and ready for immediate use, were two pairs of snowshoes.

bettles pointed to a robe of arctic hare skins, the end of which showed in the mouth of a bag.

"that's his bed," he said. "six pounds of rabbit skins. warmest thing he ever slept under, but i'm damned if it could keep me warm, and i can go some myself. daylight's a hell-fire furnace, that's what he is."

"i'd hate to be that indian," doc watson remarked.

"he'll kill'm, he'll kill'm sure," bettles chanted exultantly. "i know. i've ben with daylight on trail. that man ain't never ben tired in his life. don't know what it means. i seen him travel all day with wet socks at forty-five below. there ain't another man living can do that."

while this talk went on, daylight was saying good-by to those that clustered around him. the virgin wanted to kiss him, and, fuddled slightly though he was with the whiskey, he saw his way out without compromising with the apron-string. he kissed the virgin, but he kissed the other three women with equal partiality. he pulled on his long mittens, roused the dogs to their feet, and took his place at the gee-pole.[4]

"mush, you beauties!" he cried.

the animals threw their weights against their breastbands on the instant, crouching low to the snow, and digging in their claws. they whined eagerly, and before the sled had gone half a dozen lengths both daylight and kama (in the rear) were running to keep up. and so, running, man and dogs dipped over the bank and down to the frozen bed of the yukon, and in the gray light were gone.