and Connie showed them his knife, his service revolver, and his belt of yellow cartridges.
"You don't live here alone, do you?" he asked, as the woman turned from the stove.
"No, my husband is a—a prospector. He will be home presently."
"There isn't much use fooling with a creek like this," the boy said earnestly. "The rock isn't right. He's just wasting his time. He's a chechako, isn't he?"
Again the woman smiled. "Yes," she answered, "he's a chechako. But he has done pretty well, so far."
"That's funny, 'cause the rock isn't right," answered Connie, and noticed that the woman shot him a keen glance as he played with the children.
A few minutes later the door opened and a man entered—and started in surprise as he saw a uniformed officer of the Mounted seated upon the floor industriously fashioning a toy wagon from a bit of board and some spools, while close against either knee, watching his every move, leaned the two children. Connie glanced up, and out of the tail of his eye saw the man and the woman exchange a peculiar glance. The woman spoke:
