The trail into Justin's Hole winds down from the craggy peaks of the Elk Range, towering some nine thousand feet into the clouds and thin air. From the crest, one can see the Justin River meandering through a long verdant valley, but the village is tucked away in a horseshoe bend, now named Justin's Hole. River mist spreads through the tall pines and hardwoods lining the river, offering a splendid vision of high mountain existence.

Three men had started the long ride down that trail just after first light and that ten mile trek will take them most of the day. Along with his riding horse, each man is trailing a pair of pack mules fully loaded. They make this trip every six weeks, come hell or high water, and they often face both either coming or going.

The tall skinny man wearing the fur hat and Mackinaw is known as Jake Willoughby, and is considered the boss of the group. Just behind him, James (Moose Nose) Sam, was a scout for Kit Carson twenty years ago, and still considered the best packer in Alaska, and eating the trail dust of those two, is Dennis Ledgermain, a French Irisher out of Manitoba, looking for a killing in the mines.

"Lookin' forward to a hot bath, a big chunk of Elk, and a pretty girl, and just about in that order," Willoughby said, fording a small creek running cold and fast. "Have to stop here on one of our trips. They's got to be trout in these pools." Neither Moose Nose nor Ledgermain answered, mostly because they couldn't hear what the skinny man was saying. That didn't stop Willoughby from holding his conversation.

Crossing the creek, Moose Nose swung low from the saddle and scooped a handful of that water, splashing his face, letting some get in his mouth. "Good water," he said to the rocks and trees surrounding the trail. Ledgermain was singing, a high tenor so sweet the trees and breezes seemed to respond, and his horse and mules never threw a fit. Ever.

About noon some of the people in the village started taking little furtive glances up the side of Bull Elk Peak, first the saloon keeper, then the dentist-barber, the fellow that ran the feed store and blacksmith shop pointed out to them that it would be a couple more hours before the village goods would arrive. "Need whiskey," the saloon keeper said, spitting a wad of t'backy juice into the dust.

"Sure you do," the smithy said, "and I could use a load of corn, flour, sugar, and coffee for my shelves too, but lookin' up that old mountain ain't gonna get it here any faster." So, as they did every six weeks, the three men went into the saloon and polished off the dregs of the last bottles on the shelf.

"Getting' any color?" Ledgermain asked the first person he saw.

"'Nuff to pay you boys for the run. How's the weather down in the valley? Been cold and rainy here for billions of years now," and another wad of juice flew into the mud and dust of Justin's Hole's only street. "Lost old Clem to the cons. Consumption is bad when it's always so damn wet."

The mules were unloaded in quick order, the fifteen or so residents filled their larders and pantries, the saloon keeper was all smiles, and the man that sells flour and sugar beamed his satisfaction. "Gonna be winter soon. You boys need to double up next load, just in case we get snowed in again, like two years ago."

"Already in the plans, Michael. Where's Mr. Dodd? We need to get settled up, I need a hot bath, and is little Suzie still in town?" Willoughby wasn't going to be denied.

"Old Clem went off to the Golden Hills, Willoughby. Geoff Dawson is running things around here, now. He's over in the mine office, wearin' clean clothes ever single day. Man's gone 'city-fied' on us," and he sent a shot of juice ten feet into the mud, cackling and coughing.

"Old Clem Dodd passed on, eh? Well, I never did much care for Dawson, but if he's got our money, I guess I better learn to talk to the fool. Clean clothes? In this mud-hole?" and he walked off shaking his head, splashing mud with every step.

"Even wears a string tie, Willoughby," the old man hollered out to him, giving off with a another loud cackle of a laugh.

"So, you're runnin' things, now, eh Dawson? Well, we got it all distributed, need to get my poke filled with some of your gold, and we'll be gone at first light." Willoughby was holding in a serious chuckle seeing Geoff Dawson in a clean suit of clothes, white shirt, even a vest with a watch fob and chain. "Old Justin's Hole becoming quite the metropolis, I see," and part of that chuckle came to the surface.

"I've changed the pay schedule for the shipments. You boys have been shorting us for years. I warned Clem about you thieving shysters. From now on you'll get ten dollars each, and I'm going to do a full count on the goods before they are distributed."

"Like hell, Dawson. The rate is twelve fifty each, and you even think of calling me a cheat again, I'll slice your liver for supper." He was fingering the big Bowie knife he carried on his belt, and those that knew the skinny little mule skinner knew more than one man went six feet down from that blade.

Willoughby stormed over to the door and motioned for Moose Nose and Ledgermain to come into the office. He also yelled out to the feed store owner to come in, "and bring that saloon keeper with you."

The small mine office was jam-packed by the time everyone squeezed in. "Dawson just told me that our rate for delivering all this good stuff has been cut from twelve fifty each to ten bucks. On top of that, he called me a thief. Now, I want you boys to know that I have not shoved this beautiful long knife of mine up his ass, yet, but I better get the answers I want, pretty quick.

"Sometimes this blade just does things on its own, without any help from me," and he faked a lunge at the well-dressed gentleman behind the desk. Only two men didn't chuckle. Willoughby and Dawson. "I ain't takin' a pay cut, neither are these fine skinners what work for me, and if I don't get an apology in the next few seconds, this little village might not last through the night."

Before the echo of those words had settled, Moose Nose reached across the desk, grabbed Dawson by the neck, and dragged the man into the street where he slapped him across the side of the head, letting the well-dressed gentleman go head first into the mud. Moose Nose rubbed Dawson's face in the mud a couple of times, jerked him to his feet, and marched him back into the office.

"Changed your mind?" was all the huge man said, slamming Dawson into his chair. More chuckles bounced off the walls, but not from Dawson or Willoughby, they glared at each other, and Willoughby slowly drew the large, gleaming knife from his leather.

Dawson's eyes got bigger, he gripped the arms of his office chair, everyone in the room feared they were about to witness a death. Jake Willoughby balanced the knife, his fingers curled around the hand-carved handle, smiled every so slowly, and Dawson caved.

"All right," he howled. "Your pay will remain the same."

The knife stayed out of the sheath, the fingers remained curled around the beautifully-carved oak handle, the gleam of death remained in Willoughby's smile, and the mule-skinner whispered, "and the apology?"

The whole village turned out that evening, all except one, of course, who was nursing a large cut across his left cheek, a cut that took fifteen stitches to close. "Do you think he was sincere when he finally apologized?" Moose Nose asked, draining a tumbler of foul whiskey.

"He was sincere," Jake Willoughby answered, giving cute little Suzie another pat on the bottom. "I thought it was a very sincere gesture to give us a little raise, as well."

The mule train left before sunrise, each mule carrying out the gold from the mine, as stated in the contract recently renewed.