A bullet used is a bullet wasted. The prospectors' hearts have frozen. It's a spectacle DeMille could not have envisioned. The lust for gold is unquenchable. Temperatures fall to 40 below.
Winds hurl splinters of ice on to exposed skin, lacerating the flesh.
Any end at all, folks. Those that didn't die of hunger or disease, were murdered for the belongings. This was the beginning. The rampage was over. The big shiny nuggets that lured men to their demise were depleted enough to discourage all but the most foolhardy.