On the morrow they packed their tent, loaded the sled with everything they possessed, and set their head for the North. She sat on the sled, clad in thick mackinaw coat, fur cap, and mittens, whilst Jim stood behind with a twenty-foot whip clasped in his hand. The mixed team of twelve dogs snarled and snapped at each other as they waited for the word of command.

"Mush—you malemutes!" cried Jim.

The long curling whip came down with a whistling crack, and the team went trotting across the dazzling white plain.



CHAPTER XIII

THE TERROR OF THE NORTH

There is no stillness like the stillness of the Arctic. In the frozen wastes of the North the human voice is a blessed and desirable thing. Imagine an ice-locked land, stretching on either hand for thousands of miles, with never a bird's song to break the silence, where nothing lives but a few starved wolves, and consumptive Indians existing for the most part in foetid igloos, venturing out but rarely in search of edible roots or an occasional indigenous animal. Ninety per cent. of the human life of Alaska was settled along the Yukon valley, in close proximity to the vast artery that connected with the outer world.

North of that the boundless wilderness stretches away over plain and mountain to the very pole. Traveling is slow and tortuous, for beaten trails are few, and the wanderer must "pack" his own trail where the snow is deep—walking in front of the sled and treading a negotiable sled-track by means of snow-shoes.

The body craves for warmth, and warmth can only be obtained by excessive consumption of food. The normal ration of a healthy being is trebled to counteract the enormous evaporation of bodily heat. Fat is the staff of life. The Esquimo, settled along the coast by the Bering Sea, takes his meal of ten pounds of blubber and feels a better man. By imitative methods the white man survives the awful cold and the pitiless conditions.

To Angela it seemed that every single discomfort to which human life was subject was epitomized in these appalling wastes. The ice was yet new and river trails were unsafe. Day after day they plowed through the deep snow, ever Northward, with the wind in their teeth, and the sun but a mere spectre mounting the horizon, with an effort, to sink again but a few hours later. The dogs frightened her. They were fierce, untamed brutes who snarled at each other and fought on occasion, until the stinging lash descended on their thick coats to remind them of the terrible master behind the sled. She came to see how necessary was the whip. They responded to that and that alone. Some of them were half wolf—creatures that were the result of inter-breeding on the part of Athabaskan Indians. Like their wolf parent their energy was immense. They ate but twice daily—enormous meals of pulped fish and nondescript material which filled two of the sacks on the sled.

They camped on bleak mountains and along frozen creeks. In the latter case Jim made double use of the camp-fire. Before retiring into the snow-banked tent for the night the fire was heaped high with branches. In the morning the thawed ground beneath it was excavated and washed with snow-water, lest it harbor the much desired red mineral.

Muck! Always muck! It seemed to her amazing that he should continue this heartbreaking quest. Much as she had prized the things that money could buy, she began to hate it now. As they penetrated farther North, so the conditions grew more appalling. No longer the sun mounted the horizon. Night and day were much the same thing—a mysterious luminiferousness, merging into the fantastic lights of the great Aurora Borealis, that occasionally leapt across the Northern sky in spectrumatic beauty, to flicker and die, and rise again.

Day after day the journey went on. The ice being now strong, they skimmed across rivers and creeks, raising the snow in clouds and "switchbacking" over hummocks in a fashion that under other conditions might have been exhilarating. Then came the monotonous digging and washing, with its inevitable unsuccessful issue.

Striking the Yukon River at the "flats"—where it is reputed to be thirty miles wide—they followed its course for three weary days, until Fort Yukon was passed and the junction of the Chandalar River was made. It was while negotiating the rough surface of Chandalar that the "terror of the North" came down.

Jim heard it coming before Angela was aware of any unusual sound. For two days there had been no wind, saving a light zephyr that laid its bitter finger on the exposed flesh. Now a legion of devils were preparing for attack. A sound like unto a human sigh broke the silence. It died away and came again, a little stronger. Immediately Jim pulled the "leader" dog to the lift and cracked the long whip over the team.

"Mush, darn you, mush!"

"What's that?" inquired Angela, as an uncanny groaning met her ears.

"The wind. Gee, but she's going to raise the dead!"

The high bank loomed up and the sled turned a half-circle and came close under a protecting bluff. Jim tied the team to a tree and ran forward to Angela. She was standing terror-stricken at the sound of the approaching monster. Behind her was a huge snow-drift. He pointed to the white mass, and shouted that his voice might be heard above the Niagara of sound.

"We'll sure freeze stiff unless we git inside that—hurry!"

They bored their way into the crisp snow, like dogs in a rabbit-hole. There was scarcely need to urge Angela to use her strength. The noise of the approaching blizzard was like to fifty thousand shrieking devils. The little light that remained was suddenly blotted out. At nearly a hundred miles an hour the solid mass of wind and snow came roaring down from the mountains. The whole earth seemed to reel under the impact. Inside the sheltering snow mass it was cold enough, but outside nothing human could live. The dogs, familiar with this phenomenon of the higher latitudes, had crawled into the snow and would lie there until the noise subsided.

The two humans huddled up inside the snow heard nothing and saw nothing. It was as if the whole world had suddenly crashed into a sister planet and was hurtling into space, a broken mass. Hours passed and no change came. Occasionally the snow-drift seemed to shift a little, and Jim dreaded that some clutching finger of the wind would tear the frozen morsel of shelter from the cliff and drive it into thin air. That were indeed the end, for at fifty degrees below zero the Arctic hurricane is like a knife, from whose murderous edge no escape is possible.

They crawled lower in the snow until they reached the ice itself. It was suffocating, for the wind had blown in the entrance and fresh air was excluded.... Jim felt the body close to him—it was still as death. A great fear swept through him. She was not strong enough for this trial—she was——! He thrust his hand inside the thick coat and felt the heart. It was beating but slowly, and her hands were cold. He clasped her to him and rubbed the face with snow, growling like an animal in pain as the hideous uproar continued.

She had nearly fainted; but another hour of this poisonous incarceration and she would never recover. He dare not attempt to get to the fresher air. Outside it was certain death, and any moment might assist the wind in carrying out the task it seemed so determined to perform.... A piercing wind suddenly entered, and the whole mass quivered. He realized that the worst was about to happen—the snow was moving. Before he could fix on his mittens the snow and its two inmates were flung like a rifle-shot across the ice. There was a thundering roar, and the whole pile broke into a myriad parts. Still clasping the unconscious Angela, he went helter-skelter before the blast, pitching and sliding on the ice. The power to think was leaving him. Brain and body seemed numbed and out of action. He was only conscious that he held in his arms the thing from which not even this murderous wind could sever him. He calmly waited for the end—the dreamy, painless end that freezing death would bring....

Then he suddenly gave vent to a choking cry of joy. The wind had suddenly, marvelously vanished. He heard it howling its way across the land to the South. He dragged himself from the ice and looked back. The Aurora was flashing again and the sky was clear. The strange Arctic light was settling down on the scene, turning the snow-clad waste into mysterious colors. He rubbed his frost-bitten hands vigorously with snow and hurried up the river with Angela clasped in his arms.

He found the sled overturned, some distance from where he had left it, and hurriedly rigged up the tent on a suitable place on the bank. In a few minutes he had Angela inside, on a pile of blankets, and was forcing brandy between her lips. Seeing that she was reviving, he lit the oil stove and went to round up the dog-team.

When he returned Angela was boiling the kettle on top of the stove. She handed him a cup of cocoa in silence. He took it without attempting to drink it. Her extraordinary recovery amazed him.

"Is it all over?" she queried ultimately.

"Yep," he gasped. "But it sure did blow some."

"Yes—it's a good job we were inside the snow-drift," she replied indifferently.

He put down the mug of cocoa that he had taken up. Of all bewildering things this was the most bewildering. She was acting again—acting in her own subtle fashion. He came to the conclusion that women were beyond his comprehension—and Angela most of all.

On the next morning the temperature was moderately high. They left the river and found a good trail along the bank. Angela asked no questions regarding his destination. She had got beyond caring very much now. She determined to adopt an attitude of cold indifference.

The sled was negotiating a bad piece of trail when it suddenly stopped, and she heard an ejaculation from behind her. She saw Jim step down and examine something black in the snow. She gave a little cry as he caught the black object and pulled it up—it was a dead man, frozen as stiff as a board.

"Poor devil!" muttered Jim. "I guess he got caught in that wind."

He searched through the pockets of the mackinaw coat, but found nothing that would act as a means to identification. He let the body fall and covered it with snow.

"Aren't you going to bury him?"

He nodded and looked round him in expectant fashion.

"Must have a shack or a tent round about. He's got no pack of any kind. If it was a tent, likely enough it's a hundred miles away by now. If it was a shack it'll be very useful—to us."

She prayed it might be the latter. Anything was better than this mad wandering.

They found the shack ten minutes later, nestling in a hollow, with its chimney still smoking. They pulled up outside and went to investigate the home of the unfortunate stranger. It was a comfortable affair, containing two rooms and a small outhouse, plus a certain amount of rough furniture. In the corner of the outer room was the ubiquitous Yukon stove, with a fryingpan on the top containing a much overdone "flapjack." A pair of snow-shoes lay in a corner, and sundry articles of clothing were hanging on nails. In the next room was a camp-bed and more clothes, two bags of flour, one of beans, a few tins of canned meat, a rifle and a hundred cartridges—but no letters or information of any kind respecting its late owner.

"It'll do," said Jim. "It'll be better than a tent, anyway."

Angela agreed reluctantly. Somehow it seemed heartless to coolly take possession of this place, with its late owner lying dead but a bare mile away. It gave her an uncanny sensation as she glanced at all the little things that belonged to him, that his cold hands had touched but a few hours ago. She reflected that a year ago such an incident as this would have chilled her with horror. But apart from arousing a small amount of sentimentality it affected her now very little. It came as a shock to her to realize that fact—she was becoming as wild as this "cowpuncher" husband of hers, who even now was sallying forth with spade and ax to excavate a shallow grave in the frozen earth, to save a man's body from prowling wolves. And all without an atom of sentiment!

So little did she know of him! She did not see him remove his cap as he gently placed the luckless man in his last resting-place, or hear the short whispered prayer that he uttered.

The dogs were unharnessed and driven into the outhouse which was to serve as their future domicile. Jim collected the dead man's belongings together and made a neat pile of them in one corner of the outer room. Angela's personal things were taken into the more comfortable inner room, which boasted of a match-boarded wall—not to mention half a dozen rather indelicate prints tacked on to the same.

When he had occasion to go into the room again, after Angela had been there, he noticed that the prints had been torn from the walls. Angela was certainly very proper—for a married woman!



CHAPTER XIV

THE BREAKING-POINT

The weeks that followed were a testing-time for Angela. Her resolutions wavered and died, confronted as she was by the terrible isolation and loneliness. Stoicism was easy enough in theory but most difficult in practice. The unchanging icy vista and the eternal silence drove her to desperation. She tried work as an antidote, and found it dulled the edge of her despair.

They were fortunate enough to find a fish-trap in the outhouse. Jim regarded this discovery with great satisfaction. He chopped a hole in the river ice and, baiting the trap with a canned herring, managed to entice a "two-pounder" into the wicker basket. Angela's attempt to cook it was not entirely a failure, and the repast was a pleasant change from the eternal beans and pork.

Thereafter Angela took over the piscatorial department. It meant going to the river each morning and breaking the newly formed ice over the fish-hole—a task that called forth all her physical energy. At times the fish were scarce and the journeys without result, but they were not entirely wasted. She found that her body glowed with the exercise and her soft arms began to develop muscle.

Each day Jim took the sled and the dogs, and explored the creek in the neighborhood. Farther and farther afield he went, staying away at nights and leaving Angela to the melancholia of her soul. The shack seemed full of a strange presence, a ghostly kind of ego that made itself felt. Then along the valley came the bloodcurdling howl of a wolf, to add to her terror and misery.

The icehole froze up on one bitter night, and all the efforts of Jim could not reach water again. He eventually gave up the task as hopeless.

"Frozen right down to the river bed," he explained.

The great loneliness took deeper hold of her. The eternal gloom began to affect her mentally. She became the victim of prolonged fits of depression; Jim, tired and heavy-hearted with his arduous wanderings, noticed the change in her. It caused him acute mental agony, and not a little self-reproach. At nights he pondered the problem. Was he subjecting her to unjustifiable misery? Had he a right to do this? He knew he had not, but he was hoping—hoping vainly that she might abandon that spirit of antagonism, manifest in her every movement, and speak and act as one human being to another. He grew sick to realize that her will was no less strong than his own. What was there left to do but take her back and acknowledge defeat?

Defeat! The word aroused all his innate stubbornness. Never had he acknowledged defeat before. He had won through by sticking to the task at hand. Was he to give in now—to let this frozen-hearted woman beat him all round? How Featherstone would purr with pleasure when he knew! How all those high-browed aristocrats would congratulate this ill-treated wife on disposing of her unfortunate husband!

The old grievance still rankled, and his refusal to forget it reacted upon himself. This wilderness of great cold and hardship could not break his endeavor, but a woman was slowly and surely doing so. All his dreams evolved around her—maddening dreams in which he was grasping and missing her....

The climax was to come, and it came in a way that was totally unexpected. It came with such crushing relentless weight that it left him a mere wreck of a man.

For three days Angela had spoken no word. When he arrived back at the shack after the usual vain hunt for gold, she gave him but a quick glance, sufficient enough to convey to her that he had failed for the hundredth time. On the third night, instead of handing him his meal from the stove she sat down and burst into passionate sobs.

Instinctively he put out his hand to clasp her trembling fingers. She pushed it away fiercely and stood up, shaking with emotion.

"You've got to let me go!" she cried.

"When the spring comes."

"No, now. I can't wait until the spring. This is killing me—killing me. Can't you see that it will be too late then?"

"Angela, we came for a set purpose. If I fail when the spring comes, we'll go back to the life you want."

"I'm going now," she said grimly. "To-night!"

His mouth tightened.

"Be reasonable!"

"Reasonable! You talk of reason—you who brought me here to live like a dog, to treat as a dog——"

He sighed as he remembered her aversion to any attempted acts of kindness on his part. In every instance she had made it clear that she wanted nothing from him—that she refused kindnesses, sacrifices, on her behalf.

"I ain't treated you in any way different to that in which a husband would treat his wife."

"Wife—you call me that?"

"What do you call it, then?"

"Prisoner—slave!"

His face hardened.

"And if I did, ain't there some justification? If our deal had been a love deal I guess the arrangement would have been canceled long ago. But it wasn't. It was commercial transaction to which you gave your approval. It may be morally wrong to keep you, but the whole darned frame-up was morally wrong. So morals don't come into it—savvy? Legally I got a claim to my—goods, and you're asking me to forgo that claim. But you don't show much regret at taking a hand in that dirty business——"

"I told you I was sorry."

"Yep—sorry, because it's hurting you."

She knew this was true, and the fact that he knew it too stung her. She sunk her head in her hands and remained for some time in silence. When she raised it again her face was full of a new determination.

"You are only bringing pain upon yourself," she said tensely.

"I can bear it."

"Can you?—I wanted to spare you—but you are forcing me to this—forcing me to tell you something that is going to hurt you."

The tragic tone of her voice caused him to stand as though petrified.

"I said I should go now—to-night; and I am going."

"So!" he stammered, feeling an awful pang of fear at his heart.

"You have hitherto considered no one but yourself. How far will you carry your desire for vengeance?"

"I don't get you——"

"Wait! I told you it was killing me up here. That didn't seem to influence you much—but suppose there is someone else to be considered——"

"What are you saying?"

"Are you blind? Can't you guess? The other person is as yet unborn."

His eyes were blind with pain. He gripped a chair and swayed dizzily. His mouth moved, but uttered no sound. When at last he spoke the words came as though forced from a clutched throat.

"Not that!—God, you don't mean that? Tell me you don't mean that—Angela——"

She sank her head on her bosom and a sob escaped her. The next moment her head was jerked up and she was gazing into his steely fixed eyes.

"Was it—that man—D'Arcy?"

Another sob convinced him. He flung her arm aside and walked to the door. He had encountered hardships, disappointments, physical and mental pain, but nothing like this devastating destroyer that was gripping him. He stumbled out of the shack like a terribly sick man.

"Oh God!" he groaned. "And I loved her!"

She had won—won by means so foul that he would have died rather than that truth should have become known to him. All life was rotten, rotten to the core! Heaven was uprooted and legions of devils usurped the throne of the Almighty. He unlatched the outhouse and feverishly harnessed six of the dogs to the sled.

Trembling and ill, he crept into the shack to find her vanished to the inner room. He divided up the food in two equal portions, placed half his small financial funds inside a flour-sack, where he knew she would find it, and piled the things onto the sled. Then he called her in a low, almost inaudible, voice. She came from the inner room, closely swathed in furs and with her head sunk.

"The sled's outside.... You can mush the dogs.... They're the tamest six.... Fort Yukon is down the river, and the weather's good...."

She nodded and walked through the door. The Arctic moon, shedding a queer blue radiance over the snow hung high in the black vault. Directly overhead the Great Bear gleamed like hanging lamps, with magnificent Vega blazing like a rich jewel. She turned to him once.

"Jim!"

"Go! Go! Follow the river.... Good—good-bye!"

A choking response came back. The whip cracked and the dogs moved forward. In a few minutes she was a black blur against the scintillating snow. With a groan he turned about and went inside.

For him it was a night of unparalleled agony. Hour after hour saw him there, at the small window, gazing fixedly up the valley, until a slight increase in the light brought him to full consciousness, to realize that a new day was born.

He prepared a meal and, despite his lack of appetite, managed to consume it. Then he took the ax and the rip-saw and made for a bunch of trees higher up the hill. All day the noise of chopping and sawing broke the silence. By the evening, after a day of feverish and unremitting toil, he had fashioned a satisfactory sled.

Sleep came to him then—the deep dreamless sleep of exhaustion. But he awakened early, and began to pack the sled with sufficient food for the long journey. The six fierce brutes that remained were fed and harnessed, and he again ran over the details of his load to assure himself that nothing was missing. At the last moment he remembered the washing-pan and shovel, and placed them with the other miscellaneous articles.

He had no dog-whip, but calculated he could mush the dogs without that. He gave one glance at the shack, emitted a fierce torrent of oaths, and pushed the sled into action.

They went down the incline at a terrific rate and bumped on to the river. Yonder lay Dawson and D'Arcy. Whatever happened, he meant to get D'Arcy, if it meant taking the Pole en route. Out of this anticipation he derived some grain of pleasure—and he needed it to leaven the misery in his soul. His hand moved to the revolver in the pocket of the big bearskin coat, only to be withdrawn before he touched it.

"Nope—not that way," he muttered grimly, "but with my two hands."



CHAPTER XV

THE QUEST

It was a weary and travel-stained man that drove a dog-sled into Dawson a fortnight later. The team was like the "musher," lean and wild-eyed, after their four hundred miles of merciless driving. Through wind and snow this man had kept the trail. Sleep became a thing unknown during the latter stages of the journey. He expected to find D'Arcy in Dawson—and the desire to meet D'Arcy had grown into a craving. He had half killed the dogs and himself in this mad journey, but the incentive was tremendous.

How he missed her! Despite her soul-withering confession, he found himself building up visions of her in his brain. Life had become suddenly hopelessly blank, brightened by one thing—the desire for retribution upon the head of the man who had smashed his idol.

Man, sled, and dogs went hurtling down the street—a black mass in the falling snow. He handed them over to a man at the Yukon Hotel and mixed with the crowd in the gaming saloon. No one seemed to know anything about D'Arcy, so he inquired for Hanky Brown. Hanky was at length run to earth in a dance-hall.

"Gosh, it's Colorado Jim!"

The latter hurled at him the question that obsessed him.

"Where's D'Arcy?"

"D'Arcy? Who in hell is D'—— Gee, I got you. You won't find D'Arcy in Dawson. He's up in Endicott somewhere."

Jim's face fell. Endicott was north of the Chandalar River. It meant another journey of five hundred miles back beyond the place where he had come.

"You're certain, Hanky?"

"Sure. Ask Tony." He turned round and beckoned a man from the back of the hall.

"'Member that swell guy they called D'Arcy—didn't he go with Lonagon and Shanks on that Northern trip?"

"Yep. Struck a rich streak up there—so I heered. Why, what's wrong?"

"Nothin'," said Jim. "I was just kinder anxious to see him. I guess I'll get along."

Hanky was gazing at him curiously. He felt that something was wrong, but couldn't lay his finger on the trouble.

"You ain't going up to Endicott?"

"Maybe I am."

"It's sure a hell of a journey just now, and you ain't likely to find that man among them hills."

"I'll find him all right, Hanky. Are you clearing out next spring?"

"Yes. Gotta quarter share in '26 below' on Black Creek. We sold out yesterday to the Syndicate. The missus'll be crazed when she hears. And how about you?"

"No luck. I don't think I was born lucky, Hank. I used to think so——"

Hanky shook his head and pointed to the untasted spirit in Jim's mug.

"Drink up!"

Jim quaffed the vile spirit and fastened the chin-strap of his cap.

"Jim, don't go to Endicott."

"Eh?"

"Don't. You're looking ugly, boy, and things are done sudden-like when you're that way."

Jim gave a harsh laugh and his eyes flashed madly. Then he stopped, biting off the laugh with a snap of his teeth.

"There are some crimes for which there ain't no punishment but one, Hanky. There's no power on this earth, bar death, that'll stop me from gitting D'Arcy. If I don't come back before the break-up you can take it that he saw me coming before I got him."

He thrust his hands into the big mittens strung to his shoulders, and nodding grimly went through the door. Ten minutes later he was cracking the new dog-whip over the backs of his yelping team, and mounting the high bank heading for the North once more.

There is nothing more exciting than a manhunt when the pursuer is convinced that his cause is just, and the punishment he intends to inflict well-merited. Jim, peering through the blinding snow, saw in imagination the man he sought, all unconscious of the swift justice that was coming to him from out of the wilderness. This was man's law, whatever the written law might be. Not for one instant did his determination waver or his conviction falter. D'Arcy had partaken of forbidden fruit—partaken of it consciously, without regard for any suffering it might cause to others—and D'Arcy must pay the penalty!

It was a primitive argument and one that appealed to passions, but he was in many respects still a primitive man, with primitive ideas of right and justice. That law was good enough. It had served through all his experience of Western life, and would serve now!

The storm developed in fury, but still he drove the howling, unwilling dogs into the teeth of it. Icicles were hanging from his two weeks' growth of beard, and thick snow covered him from head to foot. Extraordinary luck favored him, for the snags and pitfalls were innumerable, and any deviation from the old obliterated trail might launch the whole outfit down into an abyss. Fortunately he struck the river again without such a catastrophe happening.

The snow ceased to fall and the sky cleared. The red rim of the sun peeped over the horizon, flooding the landscape with translucent light. Before him lay the snow-clad Yukon, broad and gigantic, running between its high wooded banks, contrary to all precedents, Northwards.

Amid the maze of peaks and valleys, high up on the Endicott Mountains, a strange affray was taking place. In a small hut, sandwiched between two perpendicular ice-walls, three men crouched at holes newly bored through the log sides. They were D'Arcy and his two companions, Lonagon and Shanks.

It was Lonagon who had first struck gold in this desolate region, late in the summer, whilst engaged in hunting caribou. Shanks had gone in with him on a fifty-fifty basis, but both lacked the wherewithal to finance a trip so far North. Against their desire they were obliged to take in a third person. D'Arcy, having assured himself that Lonagon was no liar, put up the money to buy food and gear and joined in. The idea was to thaw out the frozen pay dirt all through the winter, and to wash it when the creek ran again. Unlike the claims nearer Dawson, it made small appeal to the big Capitalized Syndicate. Lonagon was of opinion that more gold could be washed out in one season than the Syndicate would be willing to pay as purchase price.

Lonagon's optimism had been vindicated. The pay streak seemed to run along the whole length of creek.

"It sure goes to the North Pole!" ejaculated Shanks gleefully.

D'Arcy realized that he had struck a good proposition. They built the rough hut and commenced their awful task. Day by day the dump of excavated pay dirt grew larger. They tested it at times to find the yield of gold ever-increasing. At nights they sat and talked of the future. Shanks and Lonagon were for running a big hotel in San Francisco. That seemed to be their highest ideal, and nothing could shift them from it.

The fact that each of them would in all probability possess little short of a million dollars made no difference whatever. They were set on a drinking-place—where one could get drink any hour of the night without having to knock folks up, or even to get out of bed for it!

D'Arcy was planning for a life of absolute luxury. He had been poor from birth—the worst poverty of all, coupled as it was with social prominence. He glowed with pleasure as he looked forward to a time when moneylenders and dunning creditors would be conspicuously absent.

It was Shanks who brought the trouble upon them. Shanks had hit upon a Thlinklet encampment a mile or two down the creek. There were about a dozen mop-headed, beady-eyed men, and some two dozen women—two apiece—and children. Shanks in his wanderings after adventure had met a more than usually attractive Thlinklet girl. She had not been averse to his approaches and it ended in a pretty little love-scene, upon which the husband was indiscreet enough to intrude. Having some hard things to say to Shanks, who unfortunately for the devoted husband, knew a lot of the Thlinklet dialect, and who resented aspersions upon his character from an "Injun Polygamist," the latter promptly shot him.

The girl screamed with terror, and the Thlinklet community ran as one man to the scene of the tragedy. Shanks, reading swift annihilation in their eyes, promptly "beat it" for the hut.

They were now in the midst of their trouble. All the Indians had turned out armed to the teeth. Not unskilled in the art of war, they had garbed themselves in white furs, presenting an almost impossible target for the men inside the hut. A spokesman had come forward demanding the body of Shanks, and was told to go to blazes. They now crept along the deep ravine spread out over the snowy whiteness.

"I wish you'd kep' your courtin' till we got to 'Frisco," growled Lonagon.

"I didn't even kiss the gal!" retorted Shanks. "I was jest telling her——"

There was a report from outside, and a rifle-bullet whizzed within a few inches of his head.

"Gee, they've got guns!" exclaimed Lonagon. "That's darn unfortunate!"

D'Arcy crept forward and, squinting through the small loop-hole, fired twice. He gave a grunt of great satisfaction.

"That's one less."

A fusillade of shots came from the ravine. They ripped through the thick logs and out the other side. D'Arcy drew in his breath with a hiss.

"They'll get us when the light goes," he said.

"Hell they will!"

"Looky here," said Shanks, "let's hike out and get at 'em. Can't shoot through these little slits."

"They're about four to one—and there are at least six rifles there," said D'Arcy.

Shanks sneered.

"They couldn't hit an iceberg."

"Reckon they could, with an arrow," growled Lonagon. "We'd be crazed to go out there."

D'Arcy was for following Shanks' advice. They debated the point for a few minutes and then decided to attempt an attack. But the decision was made too late. There came a diabolical yell down the ravine. Shanks ran to a loop-hole.

"Gosh!—they're coming—the whole lot of them!" he cried.

The three men ran to their posts and commenced firing at the leaping figures of the Thlinklets. Three or four of them bit the snow, but the remainder reached the hut. Shots came through and the sound of hatchets sounded on the thick logs.

D'Arcy fired and a scream of anguish followed. Then he threw up his arms and fell back with a groan, his rifle sticking in the slit through which it had fired. Shanks ran to him, and saw a round hole through his coat, near the heart, around which the blood was freezing as it issued. There was obviously nothing to be done with D'Arcy. Shanks dragged the rifle from the hole and reloaded it, cursing and swearing like a madman. Still came the steady thud, thud of the hatchets, but they rang much more hollow, and the two defenders expected to see part of the wall go down at any moment. Suddenly the sound of hatchets ceased and some of the noise subsided. Lonagon peeped through a crack, and saw half a dozen Indians coming up with a battering-ram in the shape of a felled tree. They approached at a wide angle, out of the line of fire.

"Shanks, it's all up. Get your six shooter—we'll have the black devils inside in a minute."

Shanks flung down the rifle and snatched the revolver from his belt. He bent low and took a glimpse at what was happening outside. The Indians were but twenty yards away, and preparing to charge the half dissected portion of the wall with their heavy ram. He tried to get a shot at them, but could not get enough angle on to the revolver.

He saw them ambling towards him, and then, to his surprise, one of them gasped and pitched headlong. The remainder stood, transfixed, at this inexplicable occurrence. Before they recovered from their amazement another man howled with pain and placed one hand over a perforated shoulder. From afar came the sharp crack of a firearm. Shanks suddenly saw the shooter, high up on the ice wall above them.

"Gee whiz! Lonagon—it's a big feller up on the cliff! Whoever he is, he's got Buffalo Bill beaten to a frazzle. Did you see that? A bull's-eye at three hundred feet, and with a six-shooter. It clean wallops the band!"

He unbarred the door, as the remaining Thlinklets went helter-skelter down the ravine, and waved his hands to the figure above him. Lonagon turned to the still form of D'Arcy. He lifted the latter on the camp-bed, poured some whisky between his teeth, and saw the eyes open and shine glassily.

"How's it going?" he queried.

D'Arcy gave a weak smile.

"I'm finished with gold-digging, Pat. It's a rotten shame to have to let go just when luck has changed ... but that's life all over.... I'm cold—cold."

Lonagon, who recognized Death when he saw it coming, pulled some blankets over D'Arcy and turned moodily away. His was not a sentimental nature. Forty years in the North had killed sentiment, but he liked D'Arcy—and it hurt. He went out to get a sight of their unknown ally.

He found him and his hungry, grizzled team coming down the ravine with Shanks. It was Jim—but scarcely the Jim of old. For a month he had traveled up from Dawson and among the merciless peaks, eating but half rations and fighting storm and snow with all the power of his indomitable will. He looked like a great gaunt spectre, with hollow cheeks and eyes that shone in unearthly fashion. Shanks could not make head or tail of him. His proffered hand had been neglected and his few questions went unanswered. He was pleased when Lonagon turned up, for he had a deadly fear of madmen.

"What cheer, stranger!" cried Lonagon. "You turned up in the nick of time."

Jim stopped the sled and regarded him fixedly.

"Are you—Lonagon?" he asked in a husky voice.

"Sure!"

"Then where's D'Arcy? I want D'Arcy. D'ye git that? It's D'Arcy I'm after."

Lonagon looked at Shanks. Shanks tapped his forehead significantly to indicate that in his opinion the stranger had left the major portion of his senses out on the trail, and wasn't safe company.

"So—you want D'Arcy?" quavered Lonagon.

"I said so."

"Wal, you're only jest in time. Come right in and see for yourself."

Jim reeled across to the cabin and hesitated on the threshold.

"It's kinder private," he growled.

"Oh, like that, is it?"

Lonagon began to smell a rat. He pursed his lips and met Jim's flaming eyes. Undaunted, he placed his back to the door.

"See here, we're mighty obliged to you for plugging them Injuns, but you ain't going in there till we know what your game is. You ain't safe—there's a skeery look in your eyes and—" he lowered his voice—"D'Arcy is hitting the long trail."

Jim started back in amazement. The news brought him the bitterest disappointment he had yet suffered. After all this terrible time on the trail fate was to rob him of his reward! For a moment he became suspicious.

"So he put you up to that, eh? Better stand away. I ain't in a humor for hossplay. We got a score to settle."

Shanks stepped up to him.

"That score will be settled in less'n an hour. The Injuns got D'Arcy over the heart. Go in and see. I reckon you'll find there's no need to settle scores."

Lonagon, realizing that nothing could worsen D'Arcy's condition, turned away and watched Jim enter the cabin.

Once inside the door, Jim saw that the two men had spoken the truth. D'Arcy's deathly white face was turned towards him and the hands were clenched on the brown blanket. Providence was robbing him of his vengeance, and despite his crushing sense of failure, somewhere in his heart leapt a great gladness. He approached the bed, and the sound of his heavy tread awoke the dying man to consciousness. He turned his glassy eyes on his visitor, and for a moment failed to recognize him. Then memory came.

"You—you are the man—I saw—on the bank at Dawson.... Angela's husband!"

Jim nodded grimly.

"I've come," he said. "Didn't you know I'd come?"



CHAPTER XVI

THE GREAT LIE

D'Arcy regarded him fixedly. It astonished him that a man should travel hundreds of miles in the Arctic winter to vent his wrath on another.

"Why should you come?" he murmured.

"You—you ask me that! You——"

He stopped as a spasm of pain crossed D'Arcy's face. In the presence of impending Death he found a strange difficulty in giving full vent to his hate.

"I see," gasped D'Arcy. "It's because I helped her to escape. Perhaps I was wrong, but believe me, it was better that way. I knew her years ago.... It gave you pain, but it may have saved her from hating you—eventually...."

This seeming hypocrisy staggered Jim. That any man facing the shadow of Death could act in such manner was amazing. He quivered with violent repulsion.

"I wasn't referring to that," he snapped. "She didn't escape—I brought her back."

"You—you brought her back! Then why did you come here?"

"I came to kill you—with my hands. Did you think I would rest until that score was settled?"

D'Arcy attempted to drag himself into a sitting position, but the pain it caused him rendered the attempt vain. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then slowly opened them. He became conscious of the fact that they were at cross-purposes.

"I don't understand.... In any case you are too late.... But why do you want to kill me? What I did, I did for the sake of friendship. I don't doubt you would—do the same for a woman in trouble—if—if you loved her."

Jim passed his hand across his brow. It was bewildering, baffling!

"God, ain't you got a soul?" he gasped. "Can you lie there within a few minutes of death and take a pride in what you did? Damn the fate that got you plugged before I could get my hands on you. I suffered hell out there, these two months, hunting you all over the mountains, and now ..."

D'Arcy surveyed the distraught speaker in bewilderment. He had said that Angela had been brought back from the Silas P. Young. Then it wasn't that escape that had sent him up here in bitter, revengeful mood. He began to touch the outer edge of the truth.

"I'm cold," he muttered. "And it grows dark.... Where are you?... I must know more, ... tell me what troubles you.... Do you think there was anything more in that business but friendship? Speak!"

"I know!"

"Ah—I see.... So that's it.... See here, friend.... I'm going out ... right out, where perhaps there's a tribunal.... I've done bad things, but not that.... I'm glad you came ... in time. And you thought that of me—O God!"

Jim recoiled with blanched cheeks before these words, ringing as they did with truth. He tried to get a clear grip of the position, but his brain reeled under the force of this astounding denouement. D'Arcy was speaking again—so faint he could scarcely hear.

"And to think that of—her! Man—man—and you look as though you love her.... She's all that's good and pure, though her pride is—great, too great,... and she's willful and unrelenting.... Go back and put this right. Don't let this terrible unjust suspicion remain...."

"But—she told me that," gasped Jim.

Despite the pain occasioned by the movement, D'Arcy dragged himself higher on the pillow and gazed at Jim in horror.

"She—she told you—that!"

Jim wished he had bitten his tongue off before those words had been uttered. Was ever physical blow more cruel than this—to inflict insult and guilt of so despicable a nature upon a perfectly innocent man! He snatched at the nerveless hand on the bed and held it.

"I'm sorry," he groaned. "I didn't know—I didn't think she would frame up a dirty lie like that."

D'Arcy suddenly smiled wistfully.

"And where is she now?"

"I sent her away."

"You sent her—well, perhaps it was best," he said. "You've got to forget that story. Circumstances excuse many things."

"They don't excuse that."

"I think they do.... All the blame is not with her. That she should give utterance to such a lie proves to what extremes she was forced. She tried by every other means to escape—and failed. You held her, not by love, but by brute strength."

"You don't understand," retorted Jim. "I bought her. She knows that. I didn't know I was buying her, but she knew all the time——"

"You—can't buy a woman's soul."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Everything. It was her soul that writhed under that jailership——"

"Yep—and her soul that told that damned lie."

D'Arcy shook his head.

"You tried to win by the superiority of your physical strength. Is that moral? Is it justifiable? She had no other way to fight but by subtlety and falsehood. Both ways are equally detestable. Therefore it is not for you to condemn.... Tell Lonagon ... I'm going—going...."

Jim ran outside and brought in Lonagon and Shanks. Before they could reach the bed the soul of D'Arcy had flown from his pain-ridden body. Lonagon put the blanket over the dead man's face, and Shanks made strange noises in his throat.

"He was a white man, though he was a gentleman," muttered Lonagon.

Jim staggered to the door, dazed by the outcome of this meeting. But his mind had cooled down and the crazy desire for vengeance, now vanished, left him a more normal creature. But he felt sick and weary. The future seemed so hopeless and blank. Had he the desire to search for Angela and bring her back, his storm-wrecked body would have refused. Lonagon approached him.

"So you didn't kill him?"

Jim glared.

"Wal, it's jest as well, for I'd hev sure killed you."

"And I'd have been darned glad," growled Jim.

A great nausea overtook him, and he clutched the door-post for support. Shanks looked at him, and shook his head.

"Better not hit the trail to-day. You got fever."

Jim shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm all right. I'll be mushing back to my shack. 'Tain't far—two days' run. So long!"

He went to the sled, untethered the dogs, and sent them scuttling up the ravine. But the sickness remained. His head seemed nigh to bursting and all his limbs set up a chronic aching. He vaguely realized that he was in the grip of mountain fever, which had fastened on to his abused body and was breaking him up.

He had estimated his journey back to occupy two days, but he meant to do it in one. Illness on the trail meant death, and little as Life meant to him now, the natural desire to fight for it mastered the inclination to lay down and succumb to the fever and the elements.

Hour after hour the sled whirled along. Once he stopped and mechanically gave the dogs a meal. He became transformed into an automaton, acting by some subliminal power that set his direction correctly and assisted to maintain his body in an upright position.

Only one part of his brain functioned, and that part was memory. All the outstanding incidents of his adventurous career passed before him in perspective. He saw himself fighting and winning from the time when first he had set out with a gripsack to seek a fortune in the wide plains of the West. At the end of this remarkable chain of successes was the dismal picture of his present failure. A woman, rather than suffer subjugation at his hands, had perjured her soul in a dreadful lie.

D'Arcy was right. Souls were not to be bought or "broken-in." He had won in the old days because the primitive law prevailed in all things. No longer did that work. Civilization assessed man on a different basis. The Law of the Wild had been superseded by other qualities—qualities which, presumably, he did not possess. It was a bitter enough awakening for him to feel himself a failure. Wandering, half deliriously, in a vicious mental circle he came again and again to that point. He had failed in the great test—he had failed to win the heart of the woman he truly loved. So much for all those physical attributes! They conquered women in the stone age. They might conquer women now, of a kind, but they were futile weapons to employ against a modern woman, benefiting by centuries of progress and culture, with fine mentality and inflexible will.

What then were the qualities that counted? Was it love? No, not love, for his bosom was bursting with it. Not sacrifice, for he would have died for her—and she must know it. Was it Culture? Was it Education? Chivalry?

His tortured brain could find no answer. The woman herself had faced that same inward tribunal. To her, too, the obstacle was not quite clear. But it was pride of birth. It saturated her; it subjugated all passions, all emotions. It rendered her incapable of exercising her real feelings. She had placed the man low down in the scale, and had kept him there by the mere consciousness of this accident of birth.

The man behind the sled ceased to ponder the enigma. His mind became a complete blank as the shack hove into sight along the valley. He lurched from side to side as the dogs, scenting their kennel, increased their speed.

The sled hit a tree, and flung him to the ground, but the dogs went on. He raised himself to his knees, his teeth chattering in ghastly fashion. His half-blind eyes could just make out the hut in the distance, a black smudge against the pure white snow. With a great effort he began to crawl towards his refuge.... His legs felt like lead and soon refused to respond to the weakened will that moved them.

He uttered a deep groan and collapsed in the snow, his head buried in his great arms.



CHAPTER XVII

A CHANGE OF FRONT

For five days the fever raged, and then it left him, a mere wreck of his former self. All through that unconscious period the strangest things had happened. Arms had lifted him up from the pillow, and hands had fed him with liquid foods. Some glorious half-seen stranger had taken him under her care; but her face was hidden in a queer mist that floated before his eyes. At times he had tried to rise from the bed, his unbalanced mind obsessed with the idea of washing for gold, but those same strange, soft hands had always succeeded in preventing this—saving once.

On that occasion he actually succeeded in getting from the bed and standing up. He carefully placed one leaden leg before the other, and was nearly on the threshold of the door when the familiar apparition appeared.

"She doesn't know—I'm wise to all that happened—but I know. She had to do that—poor gal!... I'll jest go and tell her it's all right—not to worry none...."

Two supple arms caught him. He pushed them away, rather irritably.

"Don't butt in.... It's her I'm thinkin' of—Angela. She's sure hard and cold and can't see no good in me,... but she's got to be happy—got to be happy.... Maybe she's right. I'm only fit for hosses and wild women...."

He found himself in bed again, and quite unconscious of the fact that he had ever been out of it; but he still continued to ramble on in monotonous and eerie fashion, about Angela, Colorado, fifty thousand pounds, and sundry other things.

Full consciousness came early one morning. He had been lying trying to piece together all the queer things that floated to his brain through the medium of his disarranged optic nerve. He succeeded in arriving at the fact that there was a bed and he was lying on it, and that the ceiling was comprised of rough logs.... Then an arm was placed behind his head and a mug of something hot was placed to his lips. But he didn't drink. His sight was coming back at tremendous speed. The hazy face before him took definite shape. A pair of intensely blue eyes were fixed on him, and red shapely lips seemed to smile.

"Angela!" he gasped.

She nodded and turned her eyes down.

"Yes, it is I. Don't talk—you are too weak."

"But I don't understand. Why did you come back?"

He saw the mouth quiver.

"I came back because——"

"Go on."

"I came back because I told you a lie.... I didn't realize then what a despicable lie it was—one that reflected upon the character of a good friend, and made me seem like dirt in your eyes.... I wanted my freedom at any price, but that price was too high.... I—I couldn't go and let you think—that."

Her shoulders shook, and he saw that she was trying to conceal her sobs.

"When did you come back?" he queried in a slow voice.

"Two days after I left. I found you gone, but knew you must come back, because some of the gear was here." She hesitated. "Did—did you go after—him?"

He nodded grimly, and she gave a little cry of terror.

"You—you found him?"

He nodded affirmatively.

"And then——?"

"I found him dying from a bad injury."

"Dying——?"

"Yes. He's dead now."

She turned on him with horrified eyes.

"You—you didn't kill him?"

"Nope. I went there for that, but the Injuns got him first."

Tears swam in her eyes. She moved her hands nervelessly and put the painful, crucial question.

"Did he know—why you came?"

He inclined his head, much affected by her attitude of abject shame. She gave a smothered cry and sank her head into her hands.

"Don't, don't!" he implored. "He understood all right, and he's dead and gone. Forget it!"

He took the mug of hot cocoa, anxious to drop a subject which caused him as much pain as it did her. Through the frosted windows he could see the sunlit, beautiful landscape, shining with incomparable radiance. Soon the spring would come, and with it the soul-filling song of birds, breaking the long silence of the winter.

"It must be round about March," he said. "I sure have lost count of time."

"It's March the third or fourth," she replied.

He glanced round the room and was surprised to notice its tidy appearance. All the domestic utensils were clean and neatly arranged on shelves, and the window boasted a pair of curtains. He began to realize how near death he must have been—so near, indeed, but for her he would have crossed the abyss before this.

"Where did you find me?" he asked.

"Away back on the fringe of the wood. The dogs came home with the sled and I followed the tracks till I found you. I—I thought you were dead."

"And you carried me here?"

"I unpacked the sled and went back with it. I managed to get you on to it—the dogs did the rest."

He gave a low sigh.

"I'll soon be up and about again."

"I don't think you will. You are terribly weak—and look so ill."

He laughed weakly.

"I ain't much of an invalid. You'll see."

She did see. His recovery was amazingly rapid. He seemed to change hourly, making new flesh at an astonishing pace. His iron constitution performed miracles of transformation. In three days, despite argument, he was out of bed. On the tenth day he shouldered the shovel and the washing pan and went out to a small creek to hunt the elusive gold. But failure still dogged him. He flung down the shovel and devoted hours to thinking over the position. When the pale sun began to sink behind the multicolored peaks he came to a decision and tramped back to the shack. A meal was awaiting him, spread on a clean white cloth. He noticed that the knives had been cleaned, and that a bowl of water was heated ready for a wash, which he badly needed. It was a pleasant but astonishing change. For the first time it brought a real sense of "home." He half regretted the decision made but an hour before, but he meant to go through with it, hurt how it might.

"Angela," he said. "We're packing up to-morrow."

She looked at him queerly.

"Where to?"

"Dawson."

"And then——"

"The break-up is coming, and there'll be boats out to San Francisco."

"I see. We are going back?"

"That's about the size of it."

"Because you have failed?"

He tightened his lips and his eyes flashed.

"Nope. I ain't failed. I'll never let this thing beat me. I'll git gold if I stay till I'm fifty——"

"But you said we were——"

"I kind o' got it mixed. I meant that you should go home. See here, I've got enough dollars to get you back to England—and it's about time."

She put down her knife and fork, and he saw a queer light gathering in her eyes. He had expected a look of joy and triumph, but it wasn't that.

"Listen," she said. "A year and a half ago you made a business deal. You bought me, with my own consent, for fifty thousand pounds——"

"Cut that out," he muttered. "I ain't sticking to that—now."

"But I am."

"Eh!"

"That night when I escaped from you, by a mean trick, I was glad enough—in a way. But out there, in that cruel wilderness, I came to see that a business transaction, properly conducted, is a sacred affair. When one buys a thing, it belongs to one until someone else can pay the price. That's the position, isn't it?"

"Nope. I can give away my property if I wish."

"Not in this case."

"Hell I can!"

"Hell you can't!"

"Why not?"

"Because—I can't accept anything from you. Food is a different matter. You fixed the conditions yourself—'fifty-fifty' you called it. And that's how it stands."

He jerked his chair back and strode up and down the shack. This unexpected swing of the pendulum upset all his arrangements. He feared she did not understand the true state of affairs.

"Things is different—I've failed," he growled.

"We've failed—you mean."

"And I'm broke."

"We're broke," she corrected.

Impatiently he caught her by the arms. He lowered his voice to impress upon her the necessity of carrying out his plan.

"Don't you see how we stand? Angela, I'm asking you to do this. I've only that passage money left. This ain't the place for you——"

"Why didn't you discover that before?"

He bit his lips at the retort.

"I guess I was looking at things squint-eyed. I bin used to rough women who were born to hardship——"

She flared up indignantly.

"And that's just it. You want to make me less than these—wild women. Women are women all the world over. If they can suffer uncomplainingly, so can I. If they can dig gold and mush dogs, so can I. I dug out there along the creeks when you were ill and unconscious——"

"You dug——" Words failed him.

"Yes. I won't appear contemptible in your eyes. And I won't accept gifts—not even of freedom. You bought me and paid for me, and the debt remains."

"But I didn't buy your—soul."

"And I'm not giving it you," she retorted.

He sunk his head, feeling hopelessly beaten in the argument. All the time he was conscious of inward joy. To let her go was to suffer hell. The sudden fierceness that leaped out from her only increased his insatiable desire for her. She seemed even more beautiful in the role of tigress than in the old frigid pose of a Greek goddess.

"Have your own way," he said.

"I intend to. You fixed the laws and you can't abuse them. Fifty thousand pounds is a lot of money—more, perhaps, than most men would pay for me. But one day someone may——"

He clutched her and glared into her eyes in deep resentment.

"Do you think I would give you up for money?—my God!"

"You gave me your word," she said. "You never go back on your word—you said so."

He uttered a groan.

"It was fifty thousand," she said in level tones. "I shall not forget."

"Angela!"

"Plus ten per cent. interest," she added tensely.



CHAPTER XVIII

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE

Another week, and Jim had recovered all his old strength. With the spring in close proximity, and the food supply running dangerously short, he spared neither himself nor the dogs in his last feverish endeavor to achieve success.

Angela's attitude puzzled him not a little. Since that fierce passage of words in the shack she had made no single reference to the future. She carried on the housekeeping with increased zest. Never again were the breakfast plates found unwashed at the next meal. She began to take a pride in making the cabin as comfortable as circumstances would allow, even going to the trouble of seeking berried evergreens in the woods and transforming these into table decoration.

Occasionally she went out to meet the disappointed Jim coming back from his fruitless expeditions, and mushed the dogs while he sat on the sled. It seemed that she had succeeded in reconciling the situation—in making the best of a bad job.

One morning Jim announced his intention of exploring a small creek not a great distance from the shack. He started off with shovel and pick and the eternal washing-pan under a leaden sky. It was then an idea came to Angela. On her journey back from her abortive flight she had noticed a creek which displayed all the characteristics of those rich, shallow claims of which the Klondyke yields so many examples. Why not undertake a prospecting trip on her own account? There was a spare shovel, pick, and pan, and she had bored holes in frozen gravel before. She decided to harness up the sled and put her plan into execution.

At noon she started off with her team on the eight-mile journey. A close study of the map had convinced her that by taking the overland route she would save at least two miles either way. But her knowledge of maps was not great, and she entirely neglected to take into consideration the contour markings, which would immediately have warned any experienced traveler against such a passage.

The trail led up over a big hill and down a ravine, and for a mile or two was good "going." Coming out of the ravine the configuration changed. A jumbled mass of precipitous hills and canyons confronted her. She drove the dogs to an elevated point and looked before her. The great serpentine river came to view, clearly outlined by its wooded banks, and no more than two miles distant. On the near side of the river ran the creek she sought.

She gave a sigh of relief and urged the dogs on. The road narrowed and ascended again. The mountain-side fell away, and she found herself on a narrow ledge with a vast chasm beneath. She thought of turning back, but there was no room to turn the dogs round. Catching her breath, she went carefully forward. A few small flakes of snow on her shoulders, and then the inky sky began to empty itself. It came down in a great mass, obliterating everything. A cold terror began to possess her. In the blinding snow she could not discern the path for more than a yard or two ahead, and by the side of her yawned that dreadful chasm!

She edged in close to the perpendicular wall, peering into the whirling mass of snow. The dogs stopped, and she urged them on again, knowing that the pass must soon descend to the river.

Suddenly there was a fierce uproar among the dogs. The sled jerked forward, and commenced to move at tremendous speed. A slight wind created a funnel-like opening in the dense white cloud before her. She gave one long shriek of horror at the sight which met her eyes. The sled was on the very brink of a precipice! It hovered there for a moment—just long enough for her to fling herself sideways against the wall; then it, and the team, vanished over the side, taking a mass of snow down, down into the bottomless depths.

She crouched against the wall, petrified by what had happened. A thundering noise came up from the black hole, reverberating through the pass and over the mountains as sled and dogs were hurled to their doom. She put her fingers in her ears to keep out the dreadful sound.

It ceased, and the great silence came again. Faint and sick, she realized that her left shoulder was aching with intense pain through contact with the rock wall.

There was nothing to be done but go back and confess the catastrophe to Jim. She stood up and commenced creeping along the dreadful path. Her left arm was hanging in useless fashion, setting up acute pain at the shoulder.

The full significance of her folly came to her. She had driven a team of dogs worth at least a thousand dollars to oblivion. Their chief means of travel was gone, and hundreds of miles lay between them and civilization. How could she confess the loss to Jim? What would he say?

For an hour she plodded on through the deep snow, her mind ranging over the past. Whatever might be said of this wild husband of hers, he had played the game as he saw it. She had to admit this. Culture and breeding were very desirable things, but had he not some other natural quality which, at the least computation, balanced these attributes? Could any man of her own set have acted with greater respect for her womanhood than he?

Until recently she had been no companion to him—nothing but a continual drag on the wheel. She had hurt him in speech and action. She had deliberately set her mind on making clear to him his cultural and moral inferiority. In return for this he had given her to feel a complete sense of safety. Sleeping within a few feet of him she had never, for a moment, felt the slightest possibility of molestation or intrusion on his part. It had been easy to take this all for granted—because he was a wild man and she was a cultured woman. She had come to see that "wild men" did not show such a refinement of consideration, even though they might conceivably acknowledge their social inferiority. She knew of no other man with whom she could have entrusted herself as she did with this one. Moreover, he was her husband....

She was glad she was making things a little more pleasant for him. She saw that his natural gayety and joie de vivre, long subdued, were again welling up within him. But yesterday she had heard him singing, coming back from his day's unfruitful task. She knew herself to be the cause of that song. It was rather pleasant to reflect upon.

Now she must tell him of the loss of the dog-team, brought about by her impetuosity and disregard for his position as leader of the expedition.

She came upon the cabin and entered it, to find him still away. She took off her snow-covered garments with great difficulty, for her injured arm hurt her at the least movement. She was putting the kettle on the stove when he entered.

"Gee! but I thought we'd done with snow," he ejaculated. "But I guess this is the last drop."

He shook off his muklucks and flung the bearskin parkha into a corner. With his usual quick introspection he noticed that something was amiss.

"Anythin' wrong?" he queried.

He touched her on the injured arm and she winced with pain.

"Hello, you ain't hurt your arm?"

She nodded.

"Jim, I've done an awful thing. I've lost the dog-team."

She saw him start, and realized the full extent of the loss. To her surprise his furrowed brows relaxed and he smiled whimsically.

"Things do sure happen at the wrong time. But how did you manage that?"

She told him in low, self-reproachful tones, and winced again as a movement of the injured arm brought agony.

"Say, that's bad."

"Yes. I know. Without the dogs——"

"Oh, darn the dogs! I meant your arm. It's hurting you a heap. Ain't you had a look at it?"

"Not yet. It's rather a job getting my dress undone."

He promptly walked across the room, and in a few seconds came back with two huge red handkerchiefs.

"Sit you down," he ordered. "We'll start on this right now. How do you manage this arrangement?"

"It—it unbuttons at the back," she stammered.

She felt his big inexperienced hand at work on the buttons, and soon her dress was slipped over the injured shoulder. A little hiss escaped him as the round white arm came to view, with a hideous black bruise around the shoulder-joint. She stole one look at his face, and saw his perturbed countenance surveying the injury.

"Move your arm a little—that way."

She did so with a groan.

"Good—there ain't nothin' broke."

He soaked the handkerchief in cold water and tied up the arm with astonishing skill. Then he fashioned a sling with the other handkerchief, and carefully bent her arm and tucked it inside the latter.

"How's that?"

She smiled gratefully.

"It seems much easier."

"Sure! It'll be fine in a day or two. You sit down here and I'll git some tea."

Without waiting to see this order obeyed, he ran to the stove and poked the fire into a blaze. The singing kettle began to boil, and a few minutes later they were having tea.

She watched him carefully, and knew that the loss of the dogs was worrying him. Yet he had made so light of that, and so much of her comparatively trivial injury!

"About them dawgs, Angela?"

"Yes."

"It's kinder unfortunate, because grub's low and it's a hell of a way to Dawson. I guess we'll have to pack up to-morrow and git going. We can do a bit o' digging on the way back."

Her eyes shone strangely.

"It was all my fault, Jim."

"Bound to happen at times," he said. "Dawgs is the silliest things. See here, you're worrying some over that, ain't you now?"

"I—I know what it means—to you."

"It don't mean nothin' so long as you didn't go over that cliff with 'em. We'll make Dawson all right. I've bin up against bigger trouble than this."

He jumped up and commenced vigorously to wash up the cups and saucers, talking rapidly all the while and refusing to allow her to lend a hand.

"I done this for years, back there in Medicine Bow," he said. "Gee, them were times! There wasn't water enough to make tea with in the summer. Me and my two chums used to buy a pail of water for twenty dollars. It had to serve the three of us a whole day. We washed in it, and then drank it——"

"Ugh!"

"Wal, if we'd drank it first we couldn't have washed in it after. I guess them chaps had logic. When we did strike a spring, gold wasn't in it for excitement. It was like finding heaven. Hookey swore he'd never touch whisky again, and he didn't until we hit the next saloon."

She laughed merrily as he turned and dried his wet hands.

"It's good to hear you laugh," he said. "If you'd only laugh sometimes, Angela, I wouldn't care a damn about short rations. I seen men laugh on the plains when the chances were that two hours later their scalps would be hanging at the belts of Injuns. I was only a kid then ... but laughing is a fine thing. You can't beat a man who laughs."

"You used to laugh then?"

"Sure!"

"But not now!"

He stared out through the window.

"Maybe that's why I'm being beaten," he said.

She stood up and touched him on the arm.

"I don't think you'll ever be beaten," she said.

He shook his head, almost fearful of meeting those clear, beautiful eyes of hers.

"Only one thing in the world can beat me," he said. "And that is the thing which above all others I'm mad to get; and it ain't gold."

He spent the evening packing up the gear and the food that remained, ready for the journey down the river. The home-made sled was again requisitioned, after undergoing sundry repairs. Late in the evening Angela, from the inner room, called him. Nervously he went inside, to find her with her wonderful hair flowing over her shoulders and her dress half undone.

"I—I can't get it off," she complained.

He attended to the stubborn buttons and pulled the top down over her shoulders. On the threshold of the door he called back.

"Good-night, Angela."

She stood surveying him intently, and then came towards him.

"Whatever lies before us, don't think me ungrateful. I'll try to be a good comrade in the future if you'll let me. You've suffered so much.... It was never my wish that you should suffer. Even a bought wife has—a soul."

He saw the swell of her bosom below the pure white shoulders. All her intoxicating beauty seemed to be pleading to him. Her lips, made for kissing, were like alluring blossoms of spring. For a moment he stood drunk with passionate desire. Then he touched her fingers lightly and went outside.



CHAPTER XIX

THE CRISIS

It was spring on the Yukon—the radiant, glorious spring that is sandwiched between the intense winter and the dank, enervating summer. Birds sang in the woods, their liquid voices accompanied by the deep noise of the river, belching its millions of tons of ice into the Bering Sea. In the lower valleys the snow had vanished, and the rich green carpet of the earth shimmered in the clear sunlight.

South of Fort Yukon Angela and Jim were threading their way through a pine-forest. Both carried packs on their backs, for the sled had been discarded but a few days before, having served them faithfully for a hundred-odd miles.

Jim found a small clearing and slung the huge pack from his shoulders. Angela discarded her smaller pack and came to help him rig up the tent.

"Better than the winter, eh?" he queried, as an inquisitive bird came and hopped around them.

"In many ways, but the winter's wonderful enough when one has grown acclimatized. I shall never forget those mountains and the glory of the sunset.... Are we far from Dawson?"

"Two hundred miles or so."

"And will the food last out?"

That was the crucial question. Until the river traffic began the purchase of food was almost an impossibility. She saw Jim's face tighten, as it had tightened every time she had broached the subject. A week before he had insisted that the remaining food be equally divided, since they now both engaged in the search for gold—that eternally elusive mineral that seemed as far away as ever. The beans and flour and canned meat had been duly apportioned, and placed in their respective sacks. When they separated for the day each took his food with him, cooking it in primitive fashion in the open.

For the last few days Angela had been anxious about Jim. He seemed to have changed in an extraordinary manner. His cheeks were thinner and his eyes looked dead. Yet he was merry enough when at nights they forgathered around the fire and told their respective tales of vain searching.

She was frying some beans over the fire when he rose and pointed back through the wood.

"I guess I'll jest go along and prospect the lay of the land from the hill," he said.

"But aren't you going to have something to eat?"

"Nope—not now. I ain't hungry. I'll be back again in no time."

She ate her meal reflectively. It was queer that he should want to go to the hill, when but recently they had passed over it and had taken their bearings from the ice-laden river that lay to the east! Despite his assurance of excellent health she knew something was wrong with him. But what?

A little later she followed the path he had taken. The thickly grown wood was alive with spirit of spring. Small animals scampered underfoot, and overhead a bird breathed forth its soul in incomparable song. She stopped for a minute to listen to the latter—clear-throated as an English nightingale—singing away as though winter and the stark desolation had never been. A slight breeze moaned among the tree-tops, and woodland scents were wafted to her nostrils. Adown the gale came the slanting rays of the setting sun, red and wonderful and warm.

From near at hand came another sound—a noise as of one slashing at the earth. Carefully she made her way in the direction of the noise, curious as to its meaning. She peered round a tree, and saw something which took her breath away. Jim was kneeling on the ground, hacking with his jack-knife at the earth. Then from the excavated foot or so he took a root, scraped it with the knife, and began to gnaw it like a dog. She had heard of edible roots, on which half-starved Indians in the North managed to subsist for long periods. But for Jim to do this.... Her brain reeled at the sight. The significance of it dawned upon her. He was afraid of the future. He knew the food could not last out, and was saving his rations for the time of emergency. That was the meaning of those thinning cheeks and the dead eyes. He was famished with hunger...!

With a choke she ran towards him, holding up her hands with horror. He tried to hide the root he was chewing, but became aware that she had seen it, and that she knew the true motive of his expedition.

"Jim, why, you're starving! Why didn't you tell me?"

He stood up and put the knife into his pocket.

"'Tain't as bad as all that," he said casually. "Gotta make that grub pan out, somehow. I told you I was rough—an animal. Don't look so plumb sober. I lived for a month on roots once...."

"Come back!" she cried imperiously. "Why didn't you tell me? I had a right to know!"

He said nothing. There was nothing to be said. She didn't know what starvation was really like, and he did. She led him back to the camp, her face flushed and her eyes moist.

"Now sit down. I'm going to cook you a good meal, and you are going to eat it. Where's your grub sack?"

His mouth closed down with a snap. If she saw the grub sack the whole truth must come out, and he didn't want that.

"I've had my meal," he replied. "Don't trouble now. I ain't a bit hungry. Them roots is sure wonderful when you git used——"

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and looked round for his kit. Seeing it a few yards away she rose from her knees and made for it, but his hand came out and stopped her.

"Angela," he said hoarsely. "We got days to go yet...."

She put his arm aside and reached the pile of kit. The sack in which his food was carried was a white canvas one, easily distinguished from the rest. She turned over one or two things and found it—flat and empty.

"Gone—all gone!"

She stood with it hanging from her fingers as a suspicion entered her mind. Slowly she came to him, her bosom throbbing madly.

"What have you done with it?"

"I guess I've bin a bit too free with it."

"What have you done with it?" she reiterated.

"Wal, it's gone, and squealing won't help matters."

"Where has it gone?"

"Where does food usually go? See here, Angela—I'm right sorry about it all. Maybe I'll shoot a bird to-morrow, and then I'll have a gormandizing jag."

But the stratagem failed to have effect. She was thinking of the apparent inexhaustibility of her own supply. Two nights before she had heard him go from the tent, and the next morning the ring which he usually wore on his finger was found in her sack. Moreover, the contents had seemed strangely increased. She saw it all now. The bag slipped from her fingers and she covered her face with her hands.

"I know!... I know now!" she burst out. "I've been eating your food as well as my own. You have been replenishing my supply from your own sack. All this time you've been famished with hunger, and you've let me go on eating—living on your hunger. Oh, God! don't you see how mean I feel?" Then her eyes flashed and her tone changed. "But you had no right to do it. How dare you?"

"I guess I'd dare a lot of things for certain reasons. See here, you've bin through a hell of a lot up here, but you've never suffered hunger, and it wouldn't be good for you, I'm thinking. Cold and frostbite is one thing, and hunger's another. There's nothin' like starvation to freeze up your heart. It's like a red-hot iron inside, gittin' redder and redder.... Shootin' a starvin' dog's a mercy, I reckon."

"Is it any worse for me than you?"

"Yep."

With that dogmatic assertion he relapsed into silence. Angela flew to her own small supply of food and produced the requisities for a good meal. The mixture was soon spluttering over the fire, emitting odors almost unendurable to the hungry, watching Jim. Angela turned it out on to a plate.

"Come along," she said.

"I told you——"

She went to him and put her arm round him.

"If you've any regard for me—if you want to make me happy, eat that."

It was the first time she had ever displayed any real depth of feeling, and it was like balm to him. But his obstinacy prevailed, for in the dish was a normal day's ration for the two of them.

"Maybe you think we'll drop across food on trail, but we won't. There's nothin' to be got until the first freighter comes up the river. Better put it back."

She took her arm away and went to the dish.

"If you won't eat, I'll throw it away—I swear I will!"

"Angela!"

"It's your own maxim, your own teaching—share and share alike. I won't recognize any other doctrine. It shall go to the birds unless...."

She meant what she said, and he knew it.

"All right—I'll eat," he mumbled.

Half an hour later, feeling a hundred per cent. better, he rose to his feet and entered the tent, where Angela was busily engaged putting down the blankets on improvised mattresses of gathered moss and young bracken.

"See," she said, "I've split up the food again. How long will it last if eked out?"

He turned out one of the sacks and ran his eye over the contents.

"Two days, at a pinch."

"And how soon can we make Dawson?"

"A week, hard plugging."

"Then it looks as though the 'pinch' will have to be resorted to—and expanded."

He saw she was smiling as she tucked his bottom blanket carefully under the moss.

"When you put it that way we can make anything," he said. "If I had a canoe we could push up the river a good deal faster than overland, but I ain't got one—and that's the rub."

"Then we'll have to depend on luck."

"No friend o' mine. Luck don't cut much ice up here."

Angela shook her head. She had a slight suspicion that luck had not entirely deserted them. Though the future seemed black and threatening, were there not compensating elements? There were worse things than dying in the wilderness with a "wild man."



CHAPTER XX

COMPLICATIONS

Devinne's trading-post was not the sort of place one expected to find in Alaska. Devinne himself was a queer customer, a man of good education and birth. That he chose to establish a trading-post on the upper reaches of the Yukon was a mystery to all who knew him. The real reason was a secret in the heart of Devinne, and had reference to a quarrel in a Parisian club in which a blow had been struck in a moment of pardonable fury, resulting in the death of a revered citizen of Paris.

Devinne found the Yukon district a comparatively "healthy" spot. He had started the trading-post four years back, and had prospered very considerably. He had started in a small way, taking trips into Indian villages and bargaining for furs. A man of quick intelligence, he soon acquired a substantial knowledge of most of the queer Indian dialects, which proved a tremendous asset from a business point of view.

After one year's profitable trading he had built the "post." It was a fairly commodious affair, boasting three rooms upstairs and three below, plus a long shed attached to the rear of the main building where he carried on his business, with two half-breed assistants, who slept in the shed itself.

A year after the post was completed Natalie, Devinne's only daughter, a woman of uncertain age, came out to keep house for him. Natalie had all the quick passions of her Southern mother, which doubtlessly accounted for the sudden rupture between herself and her husband after but a brief span of married life.

Two years in Alaska had not changed her nature. Unlike Devinne, she was quick to anger. She ruled her father as completely as she had ruled her husband, until that worthy sought refuge under the wing of another, less tyrannous, woman.

On this night, in late May, Natalie and her father sat in the big front room which afforded them an uninterrupted view of the river. Natalie was busy at crochet-work, and Devinne was going over some accounts with a view to finding what profit the year had yielded. Judging by his frequent purrs and sighs, the result was not displeasing. Natalie looked up.

"Well?" she queried, in French.

"Another good season and we'll be able to get away."

"Where to?"

"Los Angeles would not be so bad. A good, equable climate, a little society, and a club or two—ah!"

"But is it safe?"

He furrowed his brows.

"We'll risk it. Four years is a long time, and I think I am changed somewhat. You won't be sorry to leave this country—ma cherie?"

Natalie put down her crochet.

"No. It seems a waste of one's life. Mon Dieu, I am tired of it."

Devinne cocked up his ears as two shrill hoots came from the river. He sprang to the window and saw the dim light of a ship going up the river.

"It's the old Topeka back again. She's early this season, which is fortunate, for we're badly in need of that consignment. 'Chips' will have to get up to Dawson to-morrow and bring the stuff back. Maybe the piano is aboard."

"Was it wise to get the piano, when we are leaving next fall?"

"We can sell it—at a profit, too.... What's that?"

"That" was a sharp rap on the outer door. It was repeated again in a few seconds. Callers were unusual at that time of the day, but all callers were welcome enough in Alaska. Natalie ran out and unbarred the door. In the dim light she saw the figure of a big man supporting a woman, who was obviously on the verge of utter collapse.

"Why, vat is it?" she ejaculated in her broken English.

"It's all that's left of us," growled a voice. "I guess we're nearly beat."

He staggered, and Natalie ran to the mute figure of Angela. "Father, father!" she cried.

Devinne appeared in a second, and took in the situation at a glance. While Jim relinquished Angela to the excited Natalie, Devinne took him by the arm and led him into the sitting-room.

"It's good fortune that led you here. How long have you been without food?"

"Two days."

"We'll soon put that right. Don't talk till you've eaten. I'll get you something to take the edge off while Natalie cooks a sound meal."

He left Jim reclining on the couch, and came back with a loaf of bread and some canned beef. Jim eyed the food with ravenous eyes.

"Where's Angela?" he queried.

"Angela?—who is—ah yes, your companion. You haven't told me your name."

"Conlan—Jim Conlan."

"And the lady?"

"My—my sister."

He started to see Angela standing in the doorway, her arm linked in that of Natalie. She regarded him in amazement as the untruth left his lips, and then came and sat down at the table.

"You vill excuse me. I go make something verra nice," said Natalie, and vanished into the kitchen.

"Now go ahead," said Devinne. "Regard that as hors-d'oeuvre till the supper is ready."

They partook of the good home-made bread, and of the meat, Devinne regarding them with kindly eyes.

"It's a good thing the steamer is early, or we might have been as badly off as you. We have but a week's supply, but the new lot will be down in a day or two.... Where have you come from?"

"Endicott," said Jim. "We lost our dogs and got delayed some. Gee, but food is a wonderful thing!"

Natalie came in and discreetly removed the remainder of the loaf and the meat.

"No more, pleece," she said. "You vill haf no room for zat supper. I haf him on the stove now."

She laughed merrily, not a little pleased at this unexpected invasion. For months she had seen no one but wandering Indians and grizzled miners. It was a delight to hold conversation with a pretty woman—not to mention a strapping son of Hercules, like unto nothing she had ever seen before.

Jim found Devinne a charming and interesting host. Over a pipe they discussed New York and London, these being Devinne's idea of paradise, a point of view which Jim scarcely shared. By the time supper was ready they all felt like old friends. Natalie, much to Angela's embarrassment, displayed particular interest in Jim.

"But your brother—he ees magnifique! Such eyes—such limbs! Mon Dieu, but I haf nevaire seen one lak him. And you go all zat way wit' him?—you are verra brave—and so beautiful."

Angela would have liked to return the compliment—for the French woman was beautiful enough, and fascinating to her finger-tips—but she felt annoyed that Jim should have placed her in this position. Why should he attempt to pass her off as his sister? It was unpardonable! And here was this French woman regarding him with eyes of obvious admiration. Angela felt a queer little stab in the region of her heart.

"I can trade you some food the day after to-morrow, Conlan," said Devinne.

"I guess I'll be making Dawson to-morrow."

"Nonsense! If you succeed in getting food there, it will be at famine price. Better stay. Nay, I insist. It isn't often we have the pleasure of meeting good company, and we claim you as guests for at least two days."

Jim glanced at Angela and saw her mouth twitch. For some reason Angela was keen to get away, but nevertheless there was sound reasoning in Devinne's argument. At Dawson food would fetch a fabulous price, until the freights could bring in bigger supplies. Devinne, with his acute business acumen, had insured a certain supply by ordering the stuff at the close of the last season and paying freightage in advance.

Jim intimated that he would wait for the arrival of the food, much to Angela's chagrin and to Natalie's unconcealed joy.

"We'll have to rig you up a bed in the next room, Conlan," said Devinne. "We only boast one spare room upstairs, and ladies come first—even in Alaska."

"Sure!"

"So you've no luck at prospecting?"

"Nope. I guess we came too late."

Devinne shook his head.

"This country is full of gold, but it's just luck in finding it. I know old-timers who have mushed their legs off without striking a cent. On the other hand young Cheechakos, without a grain of experience, have gone straight to the gold and made millions. You aren't giving up?"

"I never give up," growled Jim. "But there's my—my sister to be considered. 'Tain't a kind thing to yank a woman over the trail in winter."

Devinne agreed with a nod of his head. Conlan puzzled him a good deal. It was amazing that he should be the brother of that beautiful blonde girl, who spoke in cultured tones and was as different from him as chalk is from cheese. There lurked the suspicions that their relationship was other than brother and sister, but being a cleanminded man he strove to banish the thought.

In the meantime Natalie was showing Angela the sleeping-room reserved for her, and talking at a tremendous rate about "La Belle France" and all the things she had sacrificed—among these latter she omitted to include her late husband. Doubtless she no longer regarded him as a sacrifice!

It was later in the evening that Jim faced the music. He carried Angela's few belongings up to her room, and was bidding her "good-night" when she turned on him with flashing eyes.

"How dare you tell lies?"

"Eh?"

"How dare you tell that woman I was your sister?"

"I didn't. I told Devinne."

"Don't quibble. I—I thought you were above mean falsehood."

He shrugged his shoulders, surprised that she did not see his object.

"If I had told her the truth it would have been embarrassing for you."

"For me!"

"Yep. Angela, don't you see it would mean——"

"Well?"

"It would mean that we should have to act as man and wife."

"Well, haven't you always tried to act as—husband?"

"Have I?—I guess not. And I'm not wanting to take advantage of a situation. If you'll look clearly you'll see this thing square. I guess it would have bin awkward if they had yanked us into this room—together."

He said "good-night" softly and shut the door. Angela sat down on the bed and stared at the wall. So he had thought of that! It was amazing the things he could think of when he tried hard!

She tore off her clothes and flung herself on to the pillow, annoyed, exasperated, and generally bewildered. Then she got up, lighted the candle again, and surveyed her fresh, incomparable beauty in the mirror.

"Am I getting old—ugly?" she murmured. "Ah yes—Natalie is pretty enough to get things if she tries!"



CHAPTER XXI

NATALIE TRIES HER LUCK

Life at the trading-post might have been a pleasant thing to Angela but for one patent fact, and this fact was rendered more palpable every hour. It requires a woman to thoroughly analyze another woman's feelings, and Angela experienced little difficulty in probing the heart of Natalie. From the moment when Jim had first stepped through the doorway Angela had been aware of the fact that all Natalie's interest was centered on him.

She had seen the look of suspense in Natalie's face when Devinne had inquired of Jim their relationship, and had heard the soft sigh when the untruthful answer was returned. Hitherto she had imagined love at first sight to be a mere figure of speech, but not now. It was chiefly that fact which aroused her anger against Jim. It looked as if he deliberately gave the lie to encourage these passionate advances of Natalie.

Jim himself was the flower of innocence. Natalie was certainly an attractive woman, and she had the knack of enhancing her attractiveness by subtle, and not ungraceful, movement of her body and limbs. But all her charms were eclipsed by the mystical beauty of Angela. But for her constant obtrusiveness, it is doubtful whether Jim would have noticed her prettiness at all. He found the post a pleasant enough place after the eternal discomforts of the trail, and Devinne a thoroughly good fellow.

He did not fail to notice a queer change in Angela—a relapse into moody silence, so different from the cheerfulness which she had exhibited in the immediate past—but ascribed it to the fact that she was still pining for civilization and the old life. And he meant that she should have this, despite her resolution to accept nothing from him. Once they touched Dawson, he meant to get her aboard a boat—by physical force if necessary—and face the miseries of life without her.

For this purpose he kept intact the wad of notes necessary for her passage, and sought Devinne with a view to raising money on an article of great sentimental, and moderate intrinsic, value—the cigarette-case given him by his old chums at Medicine Bow.

Devinne was amazed when the proposition was put to him. He had no idea that his guest was reduced to such plights.

"I'll loan you the food with pleasure," he said. "There's no need to part with something you evidently love."

Jim shook his head.

"What's it worth?"

"Difficult to say—at least a thousand dollars."

"Wal, see here, you loan me five hundred on it with the option of redeeming it within a year. I'll sure strike gold by then."

Devinne nodded.

"Very well, if you insist. I'll be here until next spring. It'll be waiting for you any time you drop in."

Jim pocketed the notes and commenced to bargain for several necessaries apart from the anxiously awaited food.

In the meantime Natalie was preparing for attack. She garbed herself in her most seductive dress, and assailed Jim as he was leaving Devinne, and commenced to inveigle him into accompanying her on a walk.

"I was just going to look over some gear in the stores," he explained.

"Oh, but zat can vait. Zee day is so magnifique. Mees Angela, you say to him hee es to come."

Angela, who had just entered the passage, turned crimson.

"My brother usually pleases himself," she said, and walked away.

A few minutes' artful pleading, and Jim was beaten. It seemed outrageous to refuse her so small a—pleasure. He got his hat and stalked along beside her. Angela watched them disappear towards the river.

She felt furious with Jim—furious because he could not see that this brazen-faced woman was making love to him all the time. The studied voluptuous movements, the bright lift of the eyes, the mad rush to secure for him anything she thought he might need—how could any man but a fool misinterpret these actions? And Jim looked so innocent—too innocent, she thought. At any rate, he had gone with her on that walk, and anything might happen—Natalie wouldn't care.

She went out of the house, feeling very wroth and very dejected. Devinne met her outside the store and smiled in his quiet, pleasant fashion.