Necessarily, there were minor factors, not least among which was Del Bishop, who, in his aggressive way, stepped in and accelerated things.

This came about in a trail-camp on the way to Miller Creek, where Corliss was bent on gathering in a large number of low-grade claims which could only be worked profitably on a large scale.
"I'll not be wastin' candles when I make a strike, savve!" the pocket-miner remarked savagely to the coffee, which he was settling with a chunk of ice.

"Not on your life, I guess rather not!" "Kerosene ?" Corliss queried, running a piece of bacon-rind round the frying-pan and pouring in the batter.
"Kerosene, hell! You won't see my trail for smoke when I get a gait on for God's country, my wad in my poke and the sunshine in my eyes.

Say! How'd a good juicy tenderloin strike you just now, green onions, fried potatoes, and fixin's on the side?
S'help me, that's the first proposition I'll hump myself up against.

Then a general whoop-la! for a week--Seattle or 'Frisco, I don't care a rap which, and then--" "Out of money and after a job." "Not on your family tree!" Bishop roared.