And in the second week of July they brought up at the head of
Kispiox Canon. Hazleton lay a few miles below. But the Kispiox stayed
them, a sluice box cut through solid stone, in which the waters raged
with a deafening roar. No man ventured into that wild gorge. They
abandoned the dugout. Bill slung the sack of gold and the bale of furs
on his back.
"It's the last lap, Hazel," said he. "We'll leave the rest of it for
the first Siwash that happens along."
So they set out bravely to trudge the remaining distance. And as the
fortunes of the trail sometimes befall, they raised an Indian camp on
the bank of the river at the mouth of the canon. A ten-dollar bill
made them possessors of another canoe, and an hour later the roofs of
Hazleton cropped up above the bank.
"Oh, Bill," Hazel called from the bow. "Look! There's the same old
steamer tied to the same old bank. We've been gone a year, and yet the
world hasn't changed a mite. I wonder if Hazleton has taken a Rip van
Winkle sleep all this time?"
"No fear," he smiled. "I can see some new houses--quite a few, in
fact. And look--by Jiminy! They're working on the grade. That
railroad, remember? See all those teams? Maybe I ought to have taken
up old Hackaberry on that town-lot proposition, after all.
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