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Title: Connie Morgan in Alaska

Author: James B. Hendryx

Release Date: July 26, 2012 [EBook #40337]

Language: English

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"LIKE HIS FATHER BEFORE HIM,HE WAS ANSWERING THE CALL

OF THE GOLD"

CONNIEMORGAN IN

ALASKA

BY

JAMES B. HENDRYX

AUTHOR OF"THE PROMISE," "THELAW OF THE WOODS,"

ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

G.P. PUTNAM'S SONSNEW YORK AND LONDON

The Knickerbocker Press

Copyright, 1916by

J.B. HENDRYX

Made in the United States of America

CONTENTSCHAPTER PAGE

I.—SamMorgan'sBoy

II.—The TenBowStampede

III.— The NewCamp

IV.— Partners

V.—On theTrail ofWaseche

VI.— The Menof Eagle

VII.— In theLillimuit

VIII.—WasecheBill to theRescue

105

IX.—TheWhiteDeath

120

X.— TheIGLOO inthe Snow

141

XI.—

On theDeadMan'sLonelyTrail

156

XII.—

In theHeart ofthe SilentLand

169

XIII.— O'Brien 185

The

XIV.—Escapefrom theWhiteIndians

203

XV.—O'Brien'sCans ofGold

219

XVI.— Fightingthe North

234

XVII.—TheSnowTrail

251

XVIII.— Alaska! 269

XIX.—On theKandik 283

XX.— TheDeserter

296

XXI.— MisterSquigg

312

XXII.—The ManWhoDidn't Fit

325

ILLUSTRATIONSPAGE

"Like his fatherbefore him, hewas answering

the call ofthe gold" Frontispiece

"Making surethat the boyslept, he began

silently toassemble histrail pack"

42

"McDougall'sprizemalamutes shotout on the

trail" 52 "When Connieopened hiseyes, daylighthad

vanished" 67 "What couldone small boydo in the faceof

theultimatum of

these men of theNorth?"

81

"My dad wouldhave got out,and, you bet,

so will I!" 103 "Now, what d'yo' think of that!I'd sho' hate

fo' thisheah rope tobreak!"

116

Connie Morgan"staredspellbound at

theterrible

splendour ofthe changinglights"

136

"Waseche Billattacked thehard-packedsnow

with hisaxe" 149

"We'ah lost,kid. It's a cinchwe cain't find

thedivide" 154

"The boy's lipsmoved inprayer, the onlyone

he hadever learned" 166

"The twopartners staredopen-mouthedat the

apparition.The face waswhite!"

183

"With a palsied

arm hemotioned toO'Brien,

whostepped beforehim"

195

"The boy'sfifteen-foot lashsang through the

thin air" 216 "As they passedbetween thepillared rocks

the Indiansbroke cover,hurling their

copper-tippedharpoons asthey ran"

232

"You make metired!" criedConnie."Anybody'd

think youneeded a city,with the

streets allnumbered, tofind your way

around" 237

"Withoutwaiting for areply, Connieslipped

softly overthe edge" 262

"RecklesslyO'Brien rushedout upon the

glitteringspan of snowwhile Connieand

Wasechewatchedbreathlessly"

272

"My dadfollowedBritish Kronkeight hundred

milesthrough thesnow before hecaught

him—andthen—you justwait."

299

"Mechanicallyhe drew theknife from itssheath

anddragged himself

to the body ofthe moose." 310

"Between themwalked a little,rat-faced man.

The manwas Mr.Squigg."

331

"Squigg slunkinto the star-litnight."

337

Connie Morgan inAlaska

CHAPTER ISAM MORGAN'S BOY

Connie Morgan, or as he isaffectionately called by the big, beardedmen of the Yukon, Sam Morgan's boy,now owns one of the crack dog teams ofAlaska. For Connie has set his heart uponwinning the great Alaska Sweepstakes—the grandest and most exciting race in allthe world, a race that crowds both driverand dogs to the very last measure ofendurance, sagacity, and skill.

But that is another story. For Conniealso owns what is probably the most

ludicrous and ill-assorted three-dog teamever assembled; and he is never so happyas when jogging slowly over the trailbehind old Boris, Mutt, and Slasher.

No sourdough in his right senses wouldgive fifty dollars for the three, but SamMorgan's boy would gladly sacrifice hiswhole team of thousand-dollar dogs tosave any one of them. For it was the finecourage and loyalty of this misfit team thatenabled him to beat out the Ten Bowstampede and file on "One BelowDiscovery," next to Waseche Bill, the bigsourdough who is his partner—and wholoves him as Sam Morgan loved himbefore he crossed the Big Divide.

Sam Morgan was among those whowent to Alaska in the first days of the

great gold rush. Like Peg's father in theplay, Sam Morgan could do anything butmake money. So when the news came ofgold—bright, yellow gold lying loose onthe floors of creeks up among the snows ofthe Arctic—Sam Morgan bid his wife andboy good-bye at the door of the littlecottage in a ten-carat town of a middleState and fared forth to win riches.

The man loved his wife and son withall the love of his rugged nature, and fortheir sakes cheerfully endured the perilsand hardships of the long trails without amurmur. But in spite of his doggedpersistence and unflagging toil he nevermade a strike. He was in the van of adozen stampedes—stampedes that mademillionaires out of some men and stark

corpses out of others—but somehow hisclaims never panned out.

Unlucky, men called him. And his namebecame a byword for ill-luck throughoutthe length and breadth of the Northland.

"She's a Sam Morgan," men would say,as they turned in disappointment from anempty hole driven deep into frozen gravel,and would wearily hit the trail to sinkother shafts in other gulches.

So Sam Morgan's luck became aproverb in the North. But Sam Morgan,himself, men loved. He was known amongthe meat-eaters as a man whose word wasas good as other men's bonds, and hischeery smile made long trails less long. Itwas told in the camps that on one

occasion, during a blizzard, he divided hislast piece of bacon with a half-starvedIndian, and then, carrying the man on hisback, made eighteen miles through thestorm to the shelter of a prospector'scabin.

His word became law in the settling ofdisputes. And to this day it is told on thetrails how he followed "British Kronk,"who struck it rich on the Black Horn, andabandoned his wife, leaving her starvingin the cabin where she would surely havedied had not Sam Morgan happened alongand found her; and of how, after eighthundred miles of winter trail, he cameupon him in Candle, and of the great man-fight that took place there on the hard-packed snow; of the tight clamp of the

square jaw, and the terrible gleam of thegrey eyes as, bare fisted, he made the hugeman beg for mercy; and of how he took theman back, single-handed and withoutauthority of law, clear to Fort Yukon, andforced him to recognize the woman andturn over to her a share of his gold.

It is not the bragging swashbucklers, theself-styled "bad men," who win therespect of the rough men upon the edges ofthe world. It is the silent, smiling men whostand for justice and a square deal—andwho carry the courage of their convictionsin their two fists.

Of these things men tell in gruff tones,to the accompaniment of hearty fist-bangsof approval. With lowered voices they tellthe story of "Sam Morgan's Stumble," as

the sharp elbow is called where theRagged Falls trail bends sharply around ashoulder of naked rock, with a sheer dropof five hundred feet to the boulder-strewnfloor of the creek bed. "Just Sam Morgan'sluck," they whisper. "The only place onthe whole hundred and fifty miles of theRagged Falls trail where a man couldcome to harm—right there he steps on apiece of loose ice and stumbles head firstinto the canyon. He sure played in toughluck, Sam Morgan did. But he was aman!"

When the letters from the North ceasedcoming, Sam Morgan's wife sickened anddied.

"Jest nach'lly pined away a-waitin' ferword from Sam," the neighbours said. And

when fifteen-year-old Connie returned tothe empty cottage from the bleak littlecemetery on the outskirts of the village, hesat far into the night and thought thingsover.

In the morning he counted the fewdollars he had managed to save by doingodd jobs about the village, and placingthem carefully in his pocket, together witha few trinkets that had belonged to hismother, left the cottage and started insearch of Sam Morgan. He locked thedoor and laid the key under the mat, justwhere he knew his father would look for itshould he return before he found him.

Connie told nobody of his plans, saidno good-byes, but with a stout heart and astrange lump in his throat, passed quietly

out of the familiar village and resolutelyturned his face toward the great whiteNorth.

Thus is was that a small boy stepped offthe last boat into Anvik that fall andmingled unnoticed among the boisterousmen who crowded the shore. As the boatswung out into the current, the men left theriver and entered the wide, low door ofthe trading post.

Dick Colton paused in his examinationof the pile of freight, and noticing for thefirst time the forlorn little figure whostood watching the departing boat,sauntered over and spoke:

"Hello, sonny, where you bound?"

The boy turned and gravely faced thesmiling man. "I've come to find my father,"he answered.

"Where is your father?"

"He is here—somewhere."

"Here? In Anvik, you mean?"

"In Alaska."

The man uttered a low whistle. Thesmile was gone from his face, and henoted the threadbare cloth overcoat, andthe bare legs showing through the raggedholes in the boy's stockings.

"What is your father's name, boy?"

"Sam Morgan."

At the name the man started and anexclamation escaped his lips.

"Do you know him?" The boy's facewas eager with expectation, and the manfound the steadfast gaze of the blue eyesdisconcerting.

"Just you wait here, son, for a minute,while I run up to the store. Maybe some ofthe boys know him." And he turned andhurried toward the long, low building intowhich the men had disappeared.

"Boys!" he cried, bursting in on them,"there is a kid out here. Came in on theboat. He is hunting for his dad." The menceased their talk and looked at the speakerwith interest. "And, Heaven help us, it'sSam Morgan's boy!"

"Sam Morgan's boy! Sam Morgan'sboy!" In all parts of the room menrepeated the words and stared uneasilyinto each other's faces.

"He has got to be told," said Dick, witha shake of the head. "You tell him, Pete. Icouldn't do it."

"Me neither. Here you, Waseche Bill,you tell him."

"I cain't do it, boys. Honest I cain't. Youtell him." Thus each man urged hisneighbour, and in the midst of their half-spoken sentences the door opened and theboy entered. An awkward hush fell uponthem—the fifty rough, fur-clad men whosebearded faces stared at him from thegloom of the long, dark room—and the

one small boy who stared back withundisguised interest. The silence becamepainful, and at length someone spoke:

"So you're Sam Morgan's boy?" the manasked, advancing and offering a greathairy hand. The boy took the hand andbore the pain of the mighty grip withoutflinching.

"Yes, sir," he answered. "Do you knowhim—my father?"

"Sure I know him! Do I know SamMorgan? Well, I just guess I do know him!There ain't a man 'tween here an' Dawsondon't know Sam Morgan!" Otherscrowded about and welcomed the boywith rude kindness.

"Is my father here, in Anvik?" the boyasked of the man called Pete.

"No, kid, he ain't here—in Anvik. Say,Waseche, where is Sam Morgan at? Doyou know?" Thus Pete shifted theresponsibility. But Waseche Bill, a long,lank Kentuckian, was equal to theoccasion.

"Why, yes, Sam Mo'gan, he's up above,somewhe's," with a sweep of his arm inthe direction of the headwaters of the greatriver.

"That's right," others added, "SamMorgan's up above."

"When can I go to him?" asked the boy,and again the men looked at each other

helplessly.

"The's a bunch of us goin' up Hesitationway in a day or two, an' yo' c'n go 'long ofus. Sam's cabin's at Hesitation. But yo'cain't go 'long in that rig," he added,eyeing the threadbare overcoat and raggedstockings.

"Oh! That's all right. I'll buy somewarm clothes. I've got money. Eightdollars!" exclaimed the boy, proudlyproducing a worn leather pocketbook inwhich were a few tightly wadded bills.

Eight dollars! In Alaska! And yet not aman laughed. Waseche Bill placed hishand on the boy's shoulder and smiled:

"Well, now, sonny, that's a right sma't

lot o' money, back in the States, but it don'tstack up very high in Alaska." He noticedthe look of disappointment with which theboy eyed his hoard, and hastened toproceed: "But don't yo' fret none. It's luckyyo' chanced 'long heah, 'cause I happen tobe owin' Sam Mo'gan a hund'ed, an' it'sright handy fo' to pay it now." Hardly hadhe ceased speaking when Dick Coltonstepped forward:

"I owe Sam fifty." "An' me!" "An' me,too!" "An' me, I'd most forgot it!" Theothers had taken their cue, and it seemedto the bewildered boy as though these menowed his father all the money in theworld.

"But I don't understand," he gasped. "Isfather rich? Has he made a strike, at last?"

"No, son," answered Dick, "your fatheris not rich—in gold. He never made astrike. In fact, he is counted the mostunlucky man in the North—in some ways."He turned his head. "But just the same,boy, there's not a man in Alaska but owesSam Morgan more than he can pay."

"Tell me about him," cried the boy, hiseyes alight. "Did my father do some greatthing?" The silence was broken by oldScotty McCollough:

"Na', laddie, Sam Morgan never doneno great thing. He di' na' ha' to. He wasgreat!" And by the emphasis which thebluff old Scotchman placed upon the word"was," of a sudden the boy knew!

"My father is dead!" he moaned, and

buried his face in his hands, while the menlooked on in silent sympathy. Only for amoment did the boy remain so, then thelittle shoulders stiffened under the thinovercoat, the hands dropped to his sideand clenched, and the square jaw set firm—as Sam Morgan's had set, that day hefaced big "British Kronk" on the snow-packed street of Candle. As the boy facedthe men of the North, he spoke, and hisvoice trembled.

"I will stay in Alaska," he said, "anddig for the gold my father never found. Ithink he would have liked it so." Suddenlythe low-ceilinged room rang with cheersand the boy was lifted bodily onto theshoulders of the big men.

"You bet, he'd liked it!" yelled the man

called Pete.

"Yo'r Sam Mo'gan's boy all right—jestsolid grit clean through. It looks f'om heahlike Sam's luck has tu'ned at last!" criedWaseche Bill.

Two days later, when he hit the longtrail for Hesitation, in company withWaseche Bill, Dick Colton, and ScottyMcCollough, Sam Morgan's boy was cladfrom parka hood to mukluks in the mostapproved gear of the Northland.

He learned quickly the tricks of thetrail, the harnessing and handling of dogs,the choosing of camps, and the hastypreparation of meals; and in the evenings,as they sat close about the camp fire, henever tired of listening as the men told him

of his father. His heart swelled with pride,and in his breast grew a great longing tofollow in the footsteps of this man, and tohold the place in the affections of the big,rough men of the White Country that hisfather had held.

All along the trail men grasped him bythe hand. He made new friends at everycamp. And so it was that Sam Morgan'sboy became the pride of the Yukon.

At Hesitation he moved into his father'scabin, and went to work for ScottyMcCollough, who was the storekeeper.Many a man went out of his way to tradewith Scotty that he might boast in othercamps that he knew Sam Morgan's boy.

One day Waseche Bill took him out on

the Ragged Falls trail where, at the foot ofthe precipice, his father lay buried. Thetwo stood long at the side of the snow-covered mound, at the head of whichstood a little wooden cross with its simplelegend burned deep by the men who werehis friends:

SAM MORGANALASKA

The man laid a kindly hand on the boy'sshoulder:

"Notice, son, it don't say Hesitation, norCircle, nor Dawson—but just Alaska. Ittakes a mighty big man to fill that theredescription in this country," and the manbrushed away a tear of which he was not

ashamed.

CHAPTER IITHE TEN BOW STAMPEDE

With the passing of the winter Conniefound himself the proud possessor of athree-dog team. Shortly after the trip to"Sam Morgan's Stumble," Waseche Billdisappeared into the north on a solitaryprospecting trip. Before he left hepresented Connie with old Boris, aHudson Bay dog famed in his day as thewisest trail dog on the Yukon, and in spiteof his years, a lead dog whose sagacitywas almost uncanny.

"He's been a great dog, son, but he's

gettin' too old fo' the long trails. I aimed tokeep him 'til he died, but I know yo'll usehim right. Just keep old Boris in the leadand he'll learn yo' mo' trail knowledgethan I could—or any otheh man." ThusWaseche Bill took leave of the boy andswung out into the trail with a younger dogin the lead. Old Boris stood with droopingtail beside his new master, and as the sleddisappeared over the bank and swept outonto the ice of the river, as if inrealization that for him the trail days wereover, he threw back his shaggy head andwith his muzzle pointing toward theaurora-shot sky, sent a long, bell-likehowl of protest quavering into the chillair.

Later, a passing prospector presented

Connie with Mutt, a slow, heavily builtdog, good-natured and clumsy, who knewonly how to throw his great weight againstthe collar and pull until his footing gaveway.

The third dog of the team was Slasher,a gaunt, untamed malamute, red-eyed andvicious—a throwback to the wolf. Hisformer owner, tired of fighting him overthe trails, was on the point of shooting himwhen Connie interceded, and offered tobuy him.

"Why, son, he'd eat ye alive!" said theman; "an' if harm was to come to SamMorgan's boy through fault of a man-eatin'wolf-dog which same he'd got off o' me,why, this here Alaska land 'ud be toosmall to hold me. No, son, I guess we'll

jest put him out o' the way o' harmin'folks." But the boy persisted, and to theunspeakable amazement of the man,walked up and loosened the heavy leathermuzzle.

White fangs an inch long gleamedwickedly as the boy patted his head, butthe vicious, ripping slash which theonlookers expected did not follow. Thecrouching dog glared furtively, with backcurled lips—suspicious. Here wassomething he did not understand—thisman-brute of small size who approachedhim bare-handed and without a club. So heglared red-eyed, alert for some new trickof torture. But nothing happened, andpresently from the pocket of his parka thisstrange man-brute drew a piece of smoked

fish which the dog accepted from his barefingers with a lightning-like click ofpolished fangs, but the fingers did not jerkaway in fear even though the fangs closedtogether a scant inch from their ends.

A piece of ham rind followed the fishand the small man-brute reached downand flung the hated muzzle far out into thesnow, and with it the collar and the thonglash.

The wolf-dog rose for the first time inhis life unfettered. He shook himself andsurveyed the astonished group of men. Thestiff, coarse hair along his spine stooderect and he uttered a low throaty growl ofdefiance; then he turned and stalkedtoward the boy, planting his feetdeliberately and stiffly after the manner of

dogs whose temper quivers on a hair-trigger. Guns were loosened in theholsters of the men, but the boy smiled andextended his hand toward the dog, whichadvanced, the very personification ofsavage hate.

The men gasped as the pointed muzzletouched the small bared hand and a long,red tongue shot out and licked the fingers.At the sound, the dog placed himselfbefore the boy and glared at them, andthen quietly followed Connie to the corralat the rear of the log store.

"He's yours, son," exclaimed theprospector, as the boy joined them. "No, Iwon't take no pay for him. You saved hislife, an' he b'longs to you—only becareful. Don't never take your eyes off

him. I don't trust no malamute, let alonethat there Slasher dog."

With the lengthening of the days theNorthland began to feel the approach ofspring. Snow melted on the more exposedmountain slopes, and now and then thetrails softened, so that men camped atmidday.

Connie found time to take shortexcursions with his team up theneighbouring gulches, occasionallyspending the night in the cabin of someprospector.

He was beginning to regard himself as a"sure enough sourdough" now, and couldtalk quite wisely of cradles and rockers,of sluices and riffles, and pay dirt and bed

rock.

Then, one day when the store was fullof miners and prospectors awaiting themail, Waseche Bill burst into the roomwith the story of his big strike on TenBow. Instantly pandemonium broke loose.Men in a frenzy of excitement threw theiroutfits onto sleds and swung the dogs ontothe ice trail of the river, struggling andfighting for place.

McDougall, with his mail team of tenfast malamutes, bet a thousand dollars hewould beat out Dutch Henry's crackHudson Bays. Men came down from thehills and joined the stampede, and byevening a hundred dog teams were on thetrail.

During the excitement, Waseche Billsought out Connie and drew him to oneside:

"Listen, son," whispered Waseche,speaking hurriedly, and to the point, "git inon this, d'yo heah? Quick now, git out yo'dogs an' hit the trail. Old Boris'll take yo'theh. The's always one mo' pull in a gooddog, an' he'll unde'stand. I've been wo'kin'Ten Bow fo' six months, an' he knows thesho't-cut. Keep up yo' nerve, an' followthat dog. He'll swing off up Little Rampa't,an' the othe's will keep to the big riveh—but it's the long way 'round. It's only 'bouteighty mile by the sho't-cut, an' a good twohund'ed by the riveh. I come down thelong way so's to have a smooth trail fo' mynew lead dog. The other's a rough trail,

over ridges an' acrost gulches, up hill an'down, but yo' c'n make it! Boris, he'll seeyo' through. An' when yo' strike Ten Bow—yo'll know it, 'cause it's the only valleythat shows red rock—swing no'th 'til yo'come to a big split rock, an' theh yo'll findmy stakes.

"Now, listen! My claim'll beDiscovery." The man lowered his voiceyet more: "An' yo' stake out One BelowDiscovery—below, mind. 'Cause she's asho' winneh, an' togetheh we'll have thecream o' the gulch—me an' yo' will."

Many outfits passed Connie on the trail;the men laughing and joking, good-naturedly urged the boy onward. He onlylaughed in return, as he encouraged his ill-matched team—Big Mutt plunging against

the collar, Slasher pulling wide with thelong jumps of the wolf-dog, and old Boriswith lowered head, in the easy lope of theborn leader. Mile after mile they coveredon the smooth trail of the river, and itseemed to the boy as if every outfit inAlaska had passed him in the race. But heurged the dogs onward, for the fever wasin his blood—and like his father beforehim, he was answering the call of gold.

Suddenly, without a moment'shesitation, old Boris swerved from thetrail and headed for the narrow cleftbetween two towering walls of rock,which was the mouth of Little Rampart.On and on they mushed, following thecreek bed which wound crookedlybetween its precipitous sides.

Again old Boris swerved. This time itwas to head up a steep, narrow passleading into the hills. Connie had hishands full at the gee-pole, for it was darknow—not the black darkness of the States,but the sparkling, star-lit dark of theaurora land.

He camped at midnight on a flat plateaunear the top of a high divide. Morningfound him again on the trail. He begrudgedevery minute of inaction, for well he knewthe fame of McDougall's mail dogs, andDutch Henry's Hudson Bays. It turnedwarmer. The snow slumped under foot,and he lost two hours at midday, waitingfor the stiffening chill of the lengtheningshadows.

On the third day it snowed. Not the

fierce, cutting snow of the fall and winter,but large, feathery flakes, that lay soft anddeep on the crust and piled up in front ofthe sled. That night he camped early, forboth boy and dogs were weary with thetrail-strain.

During the night the snow stoppedfalling and the wind rose, driving it intohuge drifts. Progress was slow now andevery foot of the trail was hard-earned.Old Boris picked his way among bouldersand drifts with the wisdom of longpractice. Slasher settled down to a steadypull, and Big Mutt threw himself into thecollar and fairly lifted the sled through theloose snow. Toward noon they slantedinto a wide valley, and the tired eyes ofthe boy brightened as they saw the bold

outcropping of red rock. Thenimmediately they grew serious, and heurged the dogs to greater effort, for, fardown the valley, dotting the white expanseof snow, were many moving black specks.

Old Boris turned toward the north, andthe boy saw the huge split rock a mileaway. He was travelling ahead of the dogsnow, throwing his weight onto the babicherope, his wide snowshoes breaking thetrail. In spite of his efforts the pace wasdishearteningly slow. Every few minuteshe glanced back, and each time the blackspecks appeared larger and more distinct.He could make out men and sleds, and heknew by the long string of dogs that thefirst outfit was McDougall's.

"Hi! Hi! Mush you! Mush you!" faintly

the sound was borne to his ears, and heknew that McDougall was gaining fast—he had already broken into Connie's ownfreshly made trail. The dogs heard it, too,and with cocked ears plunged blindlyahead.

The split rock loomed tantalizinglynear, and the boy thanked his stars that hehad prepared his stakes beforehand. Heloosened them from the back of the sledand, ax in hand, ploughed ahead throughthe loose snow. His racket strucksomething hard and he pitched forward—it was one of Waseche Bill's stakes.

Feverishly he scrambled to his feet anddrove in his own stakes, followingWaseche's directions. With a final blowof his ax, he turned to face McDougall,

who stared at him wide-eyed.

"You dang little scamp!" he roared."You dang little sourdough!" And as hestaked out number Two Below Discovery,the hillsides echoed back his laughter.

Other men came. Soon the valley of theTen Bow was staked with claims runninginto the forties, both above and belowDiscovery. But the great prize of all wasOne Below, and it stood marked by thestakes of Sam Morgan's boy.

That night the valley of the Ten Bowwas dotted with a hundred camp fires, andthe air rang with snatches of rude song andloud laughter.

Men passed from fire to fire and Connie

Morgan's name was on every tongue.

"The little scamp!" men laughed; "cutstraight through the hills with them olddiscarded dogs, an' beat us to it!" "Now,what d'ye know 'bout that?" "If SamMorgan c'd lived to seen it he'd be'n thetickledest man in the world!" "Poor oldSam—looks like his luck's turned at last!"

From the surrounding gloom a manstepped into the light of a large camp-firenear which Connie Morgan was seatedtalking with a group of prospectors. Hewas a little, rat-like man, with a pinched,weasel face and little black eyes thatshone beadlike from between lashlesslids.

"This Number One claim, boys, it ain't

legal. It's staked by a boy. I'm a lawyer,an' I know. He's a minor, an' he can't holdno claim!" He spoke hurriedly, and eyedthe men for signs of approval; then headvanced toward Connie, shaking a long,bony finger.

"You ain't twenty-one," he squeaked,"an' I command you to vacate this claim inthe name of the law!" From the boy's sidecame a low growl. There was a flash ofgrey in the firelight, and the wolf-dog wasat the man's throat, bearing him backwardinto the snow.

The boy was on his feet in an instant,pulling at the dog and beating him off.Luckily for the man his throat wasprotected by the heavy parka hood, and hesustained no real damage. He arose

whimpering with fright.

The other men were on their feet now,and one of them knocked the revolverfrom the hand of the cowering man as heaimed it at the growling Slasher.

Big McDougall stepped forward, and,grasping the man by the shoulder, spunhim around with a jerk.

"Look a here, you reptile! Kin ye guesswhat that dog 'ud of done to ye, an' ithadn't be'n fer the kid? Well, fer my parthe c'd gone ahead an' done it as it was.But, seein' he didn't, just ye listen to me!What he would done won't be a patchin' towhat I will do to ye, if ever ye open yerhead about that there claim ag'in. An' thatain't all. There's a hundred men in this

gulch—good men—sourdoughs, ev'ry one—an' the kid beat us all fair an' square.An', law or no law, we're right here to seethat Sam Morgan's boy does hold downthat claim! An' don't ye fergit it!"

CHAPTER IIITHE NEW CAMP

The fame of Ten Bow travelled to farreaches, and because in the gold countrymen are fascinated by prosperity, eventhough it is the prosperity of others, theshortening days brought many new facesinto the mining camp of Ten Bow.Notwithstanding the fact that every squarefoot of the valley was staked, gaunt men,whose hollow eyes and depleted outfitsspoke failure, mushed in from the hills,knowing that here cordwood must bechopped, windlasses cranked, and fireskept going, and preferring the certainty of

high wages at day labour to the uncertaintyof a new strike in unscarred valleys.

It was six months since Waseche Billhad burst into Scotty McCollough's storeat Hesitation with the news of his greatstrike in the red rock valley to thesouthward—news that spread likewildfire through the camp and sent twohundred men over the trail in a frenziedrush for gold.

It was a race long to be remembered inthe Northland—the Ten Bow stampede. Itis told to this day on the trails, by beardedtillicums amid roars of bull-throatedlaughter and deep man-growls ofapproval, how the race was won by a boy—a slight, wiry, fifteen-year-oldchechako who, scorning the broad river

trail with its hundred rushing dog teams,struck straight through the hill with amisfit three-dog outfit, and staked "OneBelow Discovery" under the very noses ofBig McDougall and his mail team of gauntmalamutes, and Dutch Henry with hisHudson Bays.

From the glacier-studded seaboard tothe great white death barriers beyond theYukon, wherever men forgathered, thefame of Connie Morgan, and old Boris,Mutt, and Slasher, passed from beardedlip to bearded lip, and the rough hearts ofbig, trail-toughened prospectors swelledwith pride at the mention of his name.Only, in the big white country, he is nevercalled Connie Morgan, but Sam Morgan'sboy; for Sam Morgan was Alaska's—big,

quiet Sam Morgan, who never made a"strike," but stood for a square deal andthe right of things as they are. And, as theyloved Sam Morgan, these men loved SamMorgan's boy. For it had been told in thehills how Dick Colton found him, ill-cladand ragged, forlornly watching the wheezylittle Yukon steamer swing out into thestream at Anvik, whence he had come insearch of his father. And how, when helearned that Sam Morgan had crossed theBig Divide, he bravely clenched his littlefists, choked back the hot tears, and toldthe big men of the North, as he faced themthere, that he would stay in Alaska and digfor the gold his father never found.

The Ten Bow stampede depopulatedHesitation, and the new camp of Ten Bow

sprang up in a day, two hundred miles tothe southward. A camp of tents and igloosit was, for in the mad scramble for goldmen do not stop to build substantialcabins, but improvise makeshift sheltersfrom the bitter cold of the long nights, outof whatever material is at hand. For theTen Bow strike came late in the seasonand, knowing that soon the water from themelting snows would drive them fromtheir claims, men worked feverishly in theblack-mouthed shafts that dotted thevalley, and at night chopped cordwoodand kept the fires blazing that thawed outthe gravel for the morrow's digging. Whenthe break-up came men abandoned theshafts and, with rude cradles and sluices,and deep gold pans, set to work on thefrozen gravel of the dumps.

And then it was men realized therichness of the Ten Bow strike. Not sincethe days of Sand Creek and the Klondikehad gravel yielded such store of theprecious metal. As they cleaned up theriffles they laughed and talked wildly ofwealth undreamed; for the small dumps,representing a scant sixty days' digging,panned out more gold than any man in TenBow had ever taken out in a year—morethan most men had taken out in many yearsof disheartening, bone-racking toil.

During the long days of the shortsummer, while the cold waters of TenBow rushed northward toward the Yukon,log cabins replaced the tents and igloos,and by the end of August Ten Bowassumed an air of stability which its

prosperity warranted. Scotty McColloughfreighted his goods from Hesitation andsoon presided over a brand new log store,which varied in no whit nor particularfrom the other log stores of other camps.

Those were wonderful days for ConnieMorgan. Days during which the vague,half-formed impressions of youth wererecast in a rough mould by associationwith the bearded men who treated him asan equal. He learned their likes anddislikes, their joys and sorrows, theirshortcomings and virtues, and in thelearning, he came instinctively to lookunder the surface and gauge men by theirtrue worth—which is so rarely the greatworld's measure of men. And, under theunconscious tutelage of these men, was

laid the foundation for theuncompromising sense of right and justicewhich was to become the underlyingprinciple of the hand-hammered characterof the man who would one day help shapethe destiny of Alaska, and safeguard herpeople from the outreaching greed ofmonopoly.

Daily the boy worked shoulder toshoulder with his partner, Waseche Bill,the man who had presented him with oldBoris, and whispered of the short-cutthrough the hills which had enabled him tobeat out the Ten Bow stampede.

Now, the building of cabins is not easywork. Getting out logs, notching theirends, and rolling them into place, oneabove another, is a man's job. And many

were the pretexts and fictions by whichthe men of Ten Bow contrived to relieveConnie of the heavier work in the buildingof his home.

"Sonny," said Big McDougall one day,loafing casually over from the adjoiningclaim where his own cabin was nearingcompletion, "swar to gudeness, my back'slike to bust wi' stoopin' over yon chinkin'.C'u'dn't ye jist slip over to my place an'spell the auld mon off a bit. I'm mos'petered out." So Connie obliginglydeparted and, as he rammed in the mossand daubed it with mud, peered through acrack and smiled knowingly as hewatched the "petered out" man heavingand straining by the side of Waseche Billin the setting of a log. And the next day it

was Dutch Henry who removed the shortpipe from his mouth and called from hisdoorway:

"Hey, kid! Them dawgs o' mine is gittin'plumb scan'lous fat an' lazy. Seems like efthey don't git a workin' out they'll spile onme complete. Looks like I never fin' notime to fool with 'em. Now, ef you c'dmake out to take 'em down the trail today,I'd sure take it mighty kind of ye." Andwhen Connie returned to the camp it wasto find Dutch Henry helping Waseche Billin the rope-rolling of a roof log. And so itwent each day until the cabin stoodcomplete under its dirt roof. Some one oranother of the big-hearted miners, with asly wink at Waseche Bill, invented a lightjob which would take the boy from the

claim and then took his place, grinninghappily.

But Connie Morgan understood, andbecause he loved these men, kept his owncounsel, and the big men never knew thatthe small, serious-eyed boy saw throughtheir deception.

At last the cabin was finished and theboy took a keen delight in helping his bigpartner in the building of the furniture.Two bunks, a table, three or four chairs,and a wash bench—rude but serviceable—were fashioned from light saplings andpacking case boards, brought up fromScotty's store. In the new camps lumber isscarce, and the canny Scotchman realizeda tidy sum from the sale of his emptyboxes.

In the shortening days men returned tothe diggings and sloshed about in the wetgravel, cleaning up as they went; forbefore long, the freezing of the waterwould compel them to throw the gravelonto dumps to be worked out thefollowing spring.

The partners hired a man to help withthe heavier work and Connie busiedhimself with the hundred and one odd jobsabout the claims and cabin. He became awonderful cook, and Waseche Bill,returning from the diggings, always founda hot meal of well-prepared food awaitinghis ravenous appetite, while the men ofother cabins returned tired and wet togrowl and grumble over the cooking oftheir grub.

Late in September the creek froze.Blizzard after whirling blizzard followedupon the heels of a heavy snowfall, andthe Northland lay white and cold in thegrip of the long winter. Ten Bow was ahumming hive of activity. Windlassescreaked in the thin, frosty air, to the half-muffled cries of "haul away" whichfloated upward from the depths of theshafts, and the hillsides rang with thestroke of axes and the long crash of fallingtrees. By night the red flare of a hundredfires lighted the snow for miles andseemed reflected in the aurora-shot sky;and with each added bucketful, the dumpsgrew larger and showed black and uglyagainst the white snow of the valley.

To conform to the mining laws the

partners sank a shaft on each claim,working them alternately, and theexperienced eye of Waseche Bill told himthat the gravel he daily shovelled into thebucket was fabulously rich in gold.

And then, one day, at a depth of ten feet,Waseche Bill's pick struck againstsomething hard. He struck again and thesteel rang loudly in the cistern-like shaft.With his shovel he scraped away the thincovering of loose gravel which wasdeepest where his claim joined Connie's.

That evening the boy wondered at thesilence of his big partner, who devouredhis beans and bacon and sourdough bread,and washed them down with greatdraughts of black coffee. But he spoke noword, and after supper helped Connie

with the dishes and then, filling his pipe,tilted his chair against the log wall andsmoked, apparently engrossed in deepthought. At the table, Connie, poring overthe contents of a year-old illustratedmagazine, from time to time cast furtiveglances toward the man and wondered athis strange silence. After a while the boylaid the magazine aside, drew the bootjackfrom beneath the bunk, pulled off his smallboots, and with a sleepy "good-night,pardner," rolled snugly into his blankets.

CHAPTER IVPARTNERS

For a long time Waseche Bill sat tiltedback against the wall. His pipe went outunheeded and remained black and cold,gripped between his clenched teeth. Atlength he arose and, noiselessly crossingthe room, stood looking down at thetousled yellow curls that shone dully inthe lamp-light at the end of the roll ofblankets. Making sure that the boy slept,he began silently to assemble his trailpack. Tent, blankets, grub, and rifle hebound firmly onto the strong dog-sled, andreturning to the room, slid back a loose

board from its place in the floor. From theblack hole beneath he withdrew a heavybuckskin pouch and, pouring the contentsonto a folded paper, proceeded to divideequally the pile of small glitteringparticles, and the flattened black nuggetsof water-worn gold. One portion hestuffed into a heavy canvas money beltwhich he strapped about him, the other heplaced in the pouch and returned to itshiding place under the floor. He fumbledin his pocket for the stub of a lead penciland, with a sheet of brown paper beforehim, sat down at the table and beganlaboriously to write.

"Making sure that the boy slept, hebegan silently to assemble his trail

pack."

Waseche Bill had never written a letter,nor had he ever received one. There wasno one to write to, for, during an epidemicof smallpox in a dirty, twenty-two calibretown of a river State, he had seen hismother and father placed in long, black,pine boxes, by men who worked swiftlyand silently, and wore strange-lookingwhite masks with sponges at the mouth,and terrible straight, black robes whichsmelled strongly, like the open door of adrug store, and he had seen the boxescarried out at night and placed on a flatdray which drove swiftly away in thedirection of the treeless square of sand

waste, within whose white-fencedenclosure a few cheap marble slabsgleamed whitely among many woodenones. All this he watched from thewindow, tearful, terrorized, alone, andfrom the same window watched the draydriven hurriedly back through the awfulsilence of the deserted street and stopbefore other houses where other blackboxes were carried out by the strange,silent men dressed in their terrible motley.

The next day other men came and tookhim away to the "home." That is, the mencalled it a "home," but it was not at alllike the home he had left where there wasalways plenty to eat, and where motherand father, no matter how tired andworried they were, always found time to

smile or romp, and in the long evenings, totell stories. But in this new home were amatron and a superintendent, instead ofmother and father, and, except on visitingdays, there was rarely enough to eat, andmany rules to be obeyed, and irksomework to be done that tired small bodies.And instead of smiles and romps andstories there were frowns and whippingsand quick, terrifying shakings andscoldings over hard lessons. Heremembered how one day he stole outthrough an unlocked gate and hid untildark in a weed patch, and then trudgedmiles and miles through the long night andin the morning found himself in thebewildering outskirts of a great city—hewas not Waseche Bill then, but just WillieAntrum, a small boy, who at the age of

nine faced the great world alone.

The solving of the problem of existencehad left scant time for book learning, andthe man regretted the fact now when hewas called upon for the first time toexpress himself in writing. He had neverexamined a letter; his brief excursions intothe field of literature having been confinedto the recording of claim papers, and thepainful spelling out of various notices,handbills, and placards, which wereposted from time to time in conspicuousplaces about trading posts or docks. Hepuzzled long over how to begin, and ateach word paused to tug at his longmoustache, and glower helplessly andgnaw the end of his stubby pencil. At lasthe finished, and weighting the paper with

his own new, six-bladed jackknifecrossed again to the bunk and stood for along time looking down at the sleepingboy.

"I sho' do hate to go 'way an' leave yo'li'l' pa'd," he murmured. "Feels like pullin'teeth in yere." The big fingers pressed thefront of his blue flannel shirt. "But it cain'tneveh be tole how Waseche Bill done helthis pa'dneh to a bad ba'gain afteh his ownclaim run out—an' him only a kid. Ef yo'was a man 'twould be dif'ent, but yo' ain't,an' when you' grow'd up yo' might think Ituk advantage of yo'."

"Sam Mo'gan unlucky!" he exclaimed,under his breath, "Why ef yo' was myreg'lar own boy, pa'd, I'd be the luckiestman in Alaska—if I neveh struck coleh.

Unlucky, sho'!" And with a suspiciouswinking of the eyes, and a strange lump inhis throat, Waseche Bill blew out thelamp, closed the door softly behind him,harnessed his dogs, and swung out ontothe moonlit trail which gleamed white andcold between low-lying ridges of stuntedspruce.

Connie Morgan awoke next morningwith a feeling that all was not well. It wasdark in the cabin, but his ears could detectno sound of heavy breathing from thedirection of his partner's bunk. Hastily heslipped from under his blankets andlighted the tin reflector lamp. As theyellow light flooded the room the boy'sheart almost stopped beating and therewas a strange sinking feeling at the pit of

his stomach, like that day at Anvik whenthe little Yukon steamer churned noisilyaway from the log pier. For WasecheBill's bunk was empty and his blanketswere gone, and so was the tent that hadlain in a compact bale in the corner, andWaseche Bill's rifle was missing from itspegs over the window.

Suddenly his glance was arrested by thescrap of paper upon the table, where therays of light glinted on the backs of thepolished blades. He snatched up the paperand holding it close to the light, spelledout, with difficulty, the scrawling lines:

NOTISS.

dere Pard an' to Whom it mayconsern

this here is to Notissfy that me W.Bill [he never could remember howto spell Waseche, and the name ofAntrum had long been forgotten] hasquit pardners with C. Morgan. him tohev both claims which mine aint nogood no moar it havin Petered Out ansloped off into hissen. i, W. BILLdone tuk wat grub i nead an 1/2 thedust which was ourn, leavin hisseninto the poke which i hid as peralways him noin whar its at—an alsoto hev the cabin an geer.

SINED an SWORE TO befor MEOKT. 3 at ten Bow camp. so long.Kep the jack nife Kid fer to remberme with. do like i tole yo an dontdrink no booz nor buck faro layouts

like yer daddy never done an sumday yull be like him barrin his heftwhich he was a big man but mebeyull gro which ef yo dont dont worynone. ive saw runty size men for nowwhich they was good men like PeatMoar down to rapid City. play thegame squr an tak adviz offen MakDoogle an Duch Henery an Scotty anD colton but not othes til yo no emwel. I aimed to see yo thru but thingsturnin out as they done i caint. but theboys will hand it to yo strate—themsGOOD MEN yurse troole W. bill.

The boy finished reading and, droppinghis head in his folded arms, sobbed as ifhis heart would break.

Big McDougall was aroused in theearly grey of the cold Alaska dawn by aninsistent pounding upon his door.

"Come in, can't ye! D'ye want to breakdoon the hoose?" And as Connie Morganburst into the room, he sat upon the edgeof his bunk and grinned sleepily.

"What's ailin' ye lad, ye lookflustered?"

"Waseche's gone!" cried the boy, in achoking voice, as he thrust the paper intothe great hairy hand.

"Gone?" questioned the man, and beganslowly to decipher the scrawl. At lengthhe glanced at the boy who stoodimpatiently by.

"Weel?" the Scotchman asked.

"I want your dogs!"

The man scratched his head.

"What'll ye be up to wi' the dogs?"

"I'm going to find Waseche, of course.He's my pardner, and I'm going to stay byhim!" McDougall slowly drew on hisboots, and when he looked up his beardedface was expressionless.

"D'ye onderstan' that Waseche's claim'sno gude? It sloped off shallow rock ontoyourn, an' it's worked out a'ready.Waseche, he's gone, an' ye're full owner o'the best claim on the Ten Bow. You ain'tgot no pardner to divide up wi'—it's allyourn."

The boy regarded him with blazingeyes:

"What do you mean, I have no pardner?Waseche is my pardner, and you bet he'llfind that out when I catch him! I'll stick byhim no matter what he says, and if hewon't come back, I won't either! Of courseI've got the best claim on Ten Bow, butWaseche put me onto it, and gave me oldBoris, and—" his voice broke and thewords came choking between dry sobs—"and that day in Anvik he said he owedmy father a hundred dollars, and the othersall chipped in—I thought it was true then—but I know now—and I shut up about itbecause they thought I never knew!

"I don't want the claim, I wantWaseche! And I'll stick by him if I have to

abandon the claim. Pardners are pardners!and when I catch that old tillicum I'll—I'llbring him back if I have to beat him up!My dad licked British Kronk at Candle—and British was bigger! He's got to comeback!" The small fists were doubled andthe small voice rang shrill and high withrighteous indignation. Suddenly BigMcDougall's hand shot out and gripped thelittle fist, which he wrung in a mighty grip.

"Ah, laddie, fer all yer wee size, ye're amon! Run ye the noo, an' pack the sledwhilst I harness the dogs. Wi' that ten-team ye'll come up wi' Waseche anentRagged Falls Post." Twenty minutes laterthe boy appeared with his own dogsunleashed.

"McDougall's prize malamutes shot outon the trail."

"Mush! Boris, find Waseche! Mush!"And the old dog, in perfect understanding,uttered a low whine of eagerness, andheaded northward at a run. The nextinstant the boy threw himself belly-wiseonto the sled and McDougall's prize

malamutes shot out on the trail of the oldlead dog, with big Mutt and the red-eyedSlasher running free in their wake.

Standing in his doorway, the Scotchmanwatched them dwindle in the distance,while distinctly to his ears, through thestill, keen air, was borne the sharp creakof runners and the thin shouts of the boy ashe urged the dogs over the hard-packedtrail:

"Hi! Hi! Mush-u! Mush-u! Chook-e-e-e!"

CHAPTER VON THE TRAIL OF WASECHE

Waseche Bill loved the North. Theawful grandeur of the naked peakstowering above wooded heights, the widesweep of snow valleys, the chill of thethin, keen air, and the mystic play of theaurora never failed to cast their magicspell over the heart of the man as heanswered the call of the long white trails.And, until Connie Morgan came into hislife, he had loved only the North.

Accustomed to disappointment—thatbitter heritage of the men who seek gold—

he took the trail from Ten Bow as he hadmany times taken other trails, and from themoment the dogs strung out at the crack ofhis long-lashed whip, his mind was busywith plans for the future.

"Reckon I'll pass up Ragged Falls.The's nothin' theh—Coal Creek's staked,an' Dog Creek, an' Tanatat's done wo'kedout. Reckon I'll jest drift up Eagle way angit holt of some mo' dogs an' a new outfit,an' me'be take on a pa'dner an' make a tryfo' the Lillimuit." Mile after mile hecovered, talking aloud to himself, as is theway of the men of the silent places, whilethe smooth-worn runners of the sledslipped over the well-packed trail.

Overhead the sky was brilliant with theshifting, many-hued lights of the aurora

borealis, which threw a weird, flickeringglow over the drear landscape. It was thekind of a night Waseche loved, when thecold, hard world lay veiled in the half-light of mystery. But his mind was notupon the wild beauty of his surroundings.His heart was heavy, and a strange senseof loneliness lay like a load upon hisbreast. For, not until he found himselfalone upon the trail, did he realize howcompletely his little partner had takenpossession of his rough, love-starvedheart. Yet, not for an instant did he regrethis course in the abandonment of theclaim.

"It's all in a lifetime," he murmured,"an' I didn't do so bad, at that. I 'specktheh's clost to ten thousan' in my poke right

now—but the boy's claim! Gee Whiz! Fustan' last it ort to clean up a million! But,'taint leavin' all that gold in the gravelthat's botherin' me. It's—it's—I reckon it'sjest the boy hisself. Li'l ol' sourdough!

"Hayr, yo' One Ear, yo'! Quit yo'foolin'! I'm talkie' like a woman. Mushon!"

At daybreak, when he struck the widetrail of the big river, Waseche Bill haltedfor breakfast, fed and rested his dogs, andswung upstream on the long trail forEagle.

McDougall's ten malamutes were the

pride of McDougall and the envy of theYukon. As they disappeared in thedistance bearing Connie Morgan on thetrail of his deserting "pardner," the bigScotchman turned and entered his cabin.

"He's a braw lad," he rumbled, as hebusied himself about the stove. "ToWaseche's mind the lad's but a wee lad;an' the mon done what few men w'd donewhen ut come to the test. But, fer a' hissma' size the lad's uncanny knowin', an' theheart o' um's the heart o' a tillicum.

"He'll fetch Waseche back, fer he'll tak'na odds—an' a gude job ut'll be—fer,betwixt me an' mesel', the ain needs theither as much as the ither needs the ain.'Tis the talk o' the camp that ne'er a nichtsin' Ten Bow started has Waseche

darkened the door o' Dog Head Jake'ssaloon, an' they aint a sourdough along theYukon but what kens when things wasdifferent wi' Waseche Bill."

Out on the trail, Connie urged the dogsforward. Like Waseche Bill, he, too, hadlearned to love the great White Country,but this day he had eyes only for the longsweep of the trail and the flying feet of themalamutes.

"I must catch him! I've got to catchhim!" he kept repeating to himself, as theflying sled shot along hillsides andthrough long stretches of stunted timber."He'll make Ragged Falls Post tonight,and I'll make it before morning."

Darkness had fallen before the long

team swept out onto the Yukon. Overheadthe stars winked coldly upon the broadsurface of the frozen river whose snowreefs and drifts, between which wound thetrail, lay like the marble waves of asculptured ocean.

Old Boris, running free in the lead,paused at the junction of the trails, sniffedat the place where Waseche had haltedearly in the morning, and lopedunhesitatingly up the river. The old leaddog was several hundred yards in advanceof the team, and cut off from sight by thehigh-piled drifts; so that when Conniereached the spot he swung the malamutesdownstream in the direction of RaggedFalls Post, never for an instant suspectingthat his partner had taken the opposite

trail.

For several minutes old Boris ran onwith his nose to the snow, then, missingthe sound of the scratching feet and the dryhusk of the runners, he paused and listenedwith ears cocked and eyes in closescrutiny of the back trail. Surely, thosewere the sounds of the dog team—but whywere they growing fainter in the distance?The old dog whimpered uneasily, andthen, throwing back his head, gave voiceto a long, bell-like cry which, floating outon the tingling air like the blast of a bugle,was borne to the ears of the boy on theflying dog sled, already a half-mile to thewestward. At his sharp command, thewell trained malamutes nearly piled upwith the suddenness of their stop. The boy

listened breathlessly and again it sounded—the long-drawn howl he knew so well."Why has Boris left the trail," wonderedthe boy. "Had Waseche met with anaccident and camped? Were the feet of hisdogs sore? Was he hurt?" Connie glancedat his own two dogs, Mutt and Slasher,who, unharnessed, had followed in hiswake. They, too, heard the call of theirleader and had crouched in the snow,gazing backward. Quickly he swung thesled dogs and dashed back at a gallop.Passing the point where the Ten Bow trailslanted into the hills, he urged the dogs togreater effort. If something had happenedand Waseche had camped, the quicker hefound him the better. But, if Waseche hadnot camped, and old Boris was foolinghim, it would mean nearly an hour lost in

useless doubling. With anxious eyes hescanned the trail ahead, seeking topenetrate the gloom of the Arctic night. Atlength, as the sled shot from between twohigh-piled drifts, he made out a darkblotch in the distance, which quicklyresolved itself into the figure of the oldlead dog sitting upon his haunches withears alert for the approaching sled. Conniewhistled, a loud, peculiar whistle, and theold dog bounded forward with short,quick yelps of delight.

"Where is Waseche, Boris?" The boyhad leaped from the sled and was maulingthe rough coat playfully. "Find Waseche!Boris! Go find him!" With a sharp, joyfulbark, the old dog leaped out upon the trailand the wolf-dogs followed. A mile

slipped past—two miles—and no sign ofWaseche! The boy called a halt. "Boris isfooling me," he muttered, withdisappointment. "He couldn't have comethis far and gotten back to the place Ifound him."

Connie had once accompanied WasecheBill to Ragged Falls Post and when hetook the trail it was with the idea thatWaseche had headed for that point.Unconsciously, Scotty McDougall hadstrengthened the conviction when he toldthe boy he should overtake his partner atRagged Falls. So now it never occurred tohim that the man had taken the trail forEagle, which lay four days to the south-east.

Disappointed in the behaviour of the

old dog, upon whose sagacity he hadrelied, and bitterly begrudging the losttime, he whistled Boris in and tried tostart him down the river. But the old dogrefused to lead and continued to makeshort, whimpering dashes in the oppositedirection. At last, the boy gave up indespair and headed the team for RaggedFalls, and Boris, with whimpered protestsand drooping tail, followed beside Muttand Slasher.

All night McDougall's malamutesmushed steadily over the trail, and in thegrey of the morning, as they swept arounda wide bend of the great river, the long,low, snow-covered roof of Ragged FallsPost, with its bare flagpole, appearedcrowning a flat-topped bluff on the right

bank.

Connie's heart bounded with relief atthe sight. For twenty hours he had urgedthe dogs over the trail with only two shortintervals of rest, and now he had reachedhis goal—and Waseche!

"Wonder what he'll say?" smiled thetired boy. "I bet he'll be surprised to seeme—and glad, too—only he'll pretend notto be. Doggone old tillicum! He's the bestpardner a man ever had!"

Eagerly the boy swung the dogs at thesteep slope that led to the top of the bluff.A thin plume of smoke was rising abovethe roof; there was the sound of anopening door, and a man in shirt sleeveseyed the approaching outfit sleepily.

Connie recognized him as Black JackDemaree, the storekeeper. And then theboy's heart almost stopped beating, for thegate of the log stockade that served as adog corral stood open, and upon thepacked snow before the door was no sled.

"Hello, sonny!" called the man from thedoorway. "Well, dog my cats! If it ain'tSam Morgan's boy! Them's ScottyMcDougall's team, ain't it?"

"Where's Waseche Bill?" asked theboy, ignoring the man's greeting.

"Waseche Bill! Why, I ain't sawWaseche sense you an' him was down las'summer." The small shoulders droopedwearily, and the small head turned away,as, choking back the tears of

disappointment, the boy stared out overthe river. The man looked for a moment atthe dejected little figure and, stepping tohis side, laid a rough, kindly hand on theboy's arm.

"Come, sonny; fust off, we'll git thedawgs unharnessed an' fed, an' then, whenwe git breakfas' et, we c'n makemedicine." The boy shook his head.

"I can't stop," he said; "I must findWaseche."

"Now, look a here, don't you worrynone 'bout Waseche. That there ol'sourdough'll take care of hisself. Why, hec'n trail through a country where a wolfw'd starve to death!

"Ye've got to eat, son. An' yer dawgshas got to eat an' rest. I see ye're in ahurry, an' I won't detain ye needless. Mindye, they worn't no better man than SamMorgan, yer daddy, an' he worn't abovetakin' advice off a friend." Without a wordthe boy fell to and helped the man, whowas already unharnessing the dogs.

"Now, son, 'fore ye turn in fer a fewwinks," said Black Jack Demaree, as hegulped down the last of his coffee andfilled his pipe. "Jes' loosten up an' tell mehow come you an' Waseche ain't up onTen Bow workin' yer claim?"

The man listened attentively as the boytold how his partner's claim had slopedoff into his own and "petered out." And ofhow Waseche Bill had taken the trail in

the night, so the boy would have anundivided interest in the good claim. And,also, of how, when he woke up and foundhis partner gone, he had borrowedMcDougall's dogs and followed. And,lastly, of the way old Boris acted at thefork of the trails. When the boy finished,the man sat for several minutes puffingslowly at his short, black pipe, andwatching the blue smoke curl upward.Presently he cleared his throat.

"In the first place, sonny, ye'd ort toknow'd better'n to go contrary to the ol'dawg. In this here country it's as needful toknow dawgs as it is to know men. Thatthere's a lesson ye won't soon fergit—never set up yer own guess agin' a gooddawgs nose. Course, ye've got to know yer

dawg. Take a rankus pup that ain't got nosense yet, an' he's li'ble to contankerate offon the wrong trail—but no one wouldn'tpay no heed to him, no more'n they wouldto some raw shorthorn that come ablustercatin' along with a sled load o'pyrites, expectin' to start a stampede.

"But, ye're only delayed a bit. It's plainas daylight, Waseche hit fer Eagle, an'ye'll come up with him, 'cause, chances is,he'll projec' round a bit among the boys,an' if he figgers on a trip into the hills he'llhave to outfit fer it."

"Thank you, Jack," said the boy,offering his small hand; "I'll sureremember what you told me. I think I'lltake a little nap and then mush."

"That's the talk, son. Never mindunrollin' yer bed, jes' climb into my bunk,yonder. It's five days to Eagle, an' whileye're sleepin' I'll jes' run through yer outfitan' see what ye need, an' when ye wake upit'll be all packed an' ready fer ye."

When Connie opened his eyes, daylighthad vanished and Black Jack sat near thestove reading a paper-backed novel by thelight of a tin reflector lamp.

"What time is it?" asked the boy, as hefastened his mukluks.

"'Bout 'leven G.M.," grinned the man.

"Why, I've slept twelve hours!"exclaimed the boy in dismay.

"When Connie opened his eyes,daylight had vanished."

"Well, ye needed it, er ye wouldn't ofslep' it," remarked the man,philosophically.

"But, look at the time I've wasted. Imight have been——"

"Now, listen to me, son. Yere's anotherthing ye've got to learn, an' that is: In thishere country a man's got to keep hisself fit—an' his dawgs, too. Forcin' the trailmeans loosin' out in the long run. Eight orten hours is a day's work on the trail—an'a good day. 'Course they's exceptions, likea stampede or a rush fer a doctor when aman c'n afford to take chances. But take itday in an' day out, eight or ten hours'll git

ye further than eighteen or twenty.

"It's the chechakos an' the tin horns thatexcrootiates theirselves an' their dawgs toa frazzle, an' when a storm hits 'em, erthey miss a cache, it's good-night! Take anol' sourdough an' he'll jes' sagashitatealong, eat a plenty an' sleep a plenty an' dothe like by his dawgs, an' when troublecomes he jes' tightens his belt a hole ertwo an' hits his dawgs couple extra licksfer breakfas' an' exooberates along on hisnerve.

"Eat yer supper, now, an' ye c'n hit thetrail whenever ye like. Yer sled's packedfer the trip an' a couple days to spare."

"I came away in such a hurry I forgot tobring my dust," said the boy, ruefully.

"Well, I guess ye're good fer it,"laughed the man. "Wisht I had a thousan'on my books with claims as good as yournan' Waseche's."

After supper they harnessed the dogsand the boy turned to bid his friend good-bye. The man extended a buckskin pouch.

"Here's a poke with a couple hundred init. Take it along. Ye mightn't need it, an'then agin ye might, an' if ye do need it,ye'll need it bad." The boy made a motionof protest.

"G'wan, it's yourn. I got it all chalkedup agin ye, an' I'd have to change thefiggers, an' if they's anything on earth Ihate, it's to bookkeep. So long! When yesee Waseche Bill, tell him Black Jack

Demaree says ye can't never tell by thesize of a frog how fer he c'n jump."

CHAPTER VITHE MEN OF EAGLE

Waseche Bill jogged along the mainstreet of Eagle, past log cabins, boardshacks, and the deceiving two-story frontsof one-story stores. Now and then anacquaintance hailed him from the woodensidewalk, and he recognized others heknew, among the small knots of men whostood about idly discussing the meagrenews of the camp. At the Royal PalmHotel, a long, low, log building with afalse front of boards, he swung in and,passing around to the rear, turned his dogsinto the stockade.

In the office, seated about the stove,were a dozen or more men, most of whomWaseche knew. They greeted him loudlyas he entered, and plied him with a volleyof questions.

"Where ye headed?"

"Thought ye'd struck it rich on TenBow?"

"D'ye hear about Camaron Creek?"

The newcomer removed his heavyparka and joined the group, answering aquestion here, and asking one there.

"How's Sam Morgan's boy comin' on?We heard how you an' him was pardnersan' had a big thing over on Ten Bow,"inquired a tall man whose doleful length

of sallow countenance had earned him thenickname of Fiddle Face. As he talked,this man gnawed the end of hisprodigiously long mustache. Waseche'seyes lighted at the mention of the boy.

"He's the finest kid eveh was, I reckon.Sma't as a steel trap, an' they ain't nawthin'he won't tackle. C'n cook a meal o' vittlesthat'd make yo' mouth wateh, an' jestnach'lly handles dogs like an ol' tillicum."

"How come ye ain't workin' yer claim?"asked someone.

"It's this-a-way," answered Waseche,addressing the group. "Mine's Discovery,an' his'n's One Below, an' we th'ow'd intogetheh. 'Bout ten foot down, mine slopedoff into his'n—run plumb out. An' I come

away so's the kid'll have the claim cleah."A silence followed Waseche's simplestatement—a silence punctuated by nodsof approval and low-voiced mutterings of"Hard luck," and "Too bad." Fiddle Facewas first to speak.

"That's what I call a man!" heexclaimed, bringing his hand down onWaseche's shoulder with a resoundingwhack.

"Won't ye step acrost to Hank's placean' have a drink?" invited a large man,removing his feet from the fender of thebig stove, and settling the fur cap morefirmly upon his head.

"No thanks, Joe. Fact is, I ain't took adrink fo' quite a spell. Kind o' got out o'

the notion, somehow."

"Well, sure seems funny to hear yourefusin' a drink! Remember Iditarod?" Theman smiled.

"Oh, sure, I recollect. An' I recollectthat it ain't neveh got me nawthin' butmisery an' an empty poke. But, it ain't somuch that. It's—well, it's like this: SamMo'gan, he ain't heah no mo' to look aftehthe kid, an'—yo' see, the li'l scamp, he'skind o' got it in his head that they ain't noone jest like me—kind o' thinks I really'mount to somethin', an' what I say an' dois 'bout right. It don't stand to reason I c'nmake him b'lieve 'taint no good to drinklicker, an' then go ahead an' drink it myself—does it, now?"

"Sure don't!" agreed the other heartily."An' that's what I call a man!" And thewhack that descended upon Waseche'sshoulder out-sounded by half the whack ofFiddle Face.

After supper the men drifted out bytwos and threes for their nightly rounds ofthe camp's tawdry places of amusement.Waseche Bill, declining their invitations,sat alone by the stove, thinking. The manwas lonely. Until this night he had had notime to realize how much he missed hislittle partner, and his thoughts lingeredover the long evenings when they talkedtogether in the cabin, and the boy wouldread aloud from the illustrated magazines.

A chair was drawn up beside his, andthe man called Joe laid a large hand upon

his knee.

"This here Sam Morgan's boy—does hefavour Sam?" he asked.

"Like as two bullets—barrin' size,"replied Waseche, without raising his eyes.

"I s'pose you talked it over with the kid'fore you come away?" Waseche lookedup.

"Why, no! I done left a lettah, an' comeaway while he was sleepin'."

"D'ye think he'll stand fer that?"

"I reckon he's got to. Course, it'll bekind o' hard on him, fust off, me'be. Sameas me. But it's bettah fo' him in the end.Why, his claim's good fo' a million! An'

the boys up to Ten Bow, they'll see himthrough—McDougall, an' Dutch Henry, an'the rest. They-all think as much of the boyas what I do." The big man at Waseche'sside shook his head doubtfully.

"I know'd Sam Morgan well," he said,fixing the other with his eyes. "He doneme a good turn onct an' he never asked noodds off'en no one. Now, if the kid's jes'like him—s'pose he follers ye?"

"Cain't. He ain't got the dogs to."

The other smiled and dropped thesubject.

"Where ye headin' fer, Waseche?" heasked, after a few moments of silence.

"I aim to make a try fo' the Lillimuit."

"The Lillimuit!" exclaimed Joe. "Man,be ye crazy?"

"No. They's gold theh. I seen thenuggets Sven Carlson fetched back twoye'rs ago."

"Yes! An' where's Sven Carlson now?"

"I don'no."

"An' no one else don't know, neither.He's dead—that's where he is! Leastwise,he ain't never be'n heerd from after hestarted back fer the Lillimuit."

"Want to go 'long?" asked Waseche,ignoring the other's statement.

"Who? Me! Not on yer life I don't—notto the Lillimuit! Not fer all the gold in the

world."

"Oh, I reckon 'tain't so bad as folksclaim."

"Claim! Folks ain't in no shape toclaim! They ain't no one ever come back,'cept Carlson—an' he was loco, an' wentin agin—an' that's the last of Carlson."

"What ails the country?" askedWaseche.

"They's talk of white Injuns, an' creeksthat don't freeze, an'—well, they don't noone really know, but Carlson." The manshrugged and glanced over his shoulder."If I was you, I'd hit the back trail. They'sa plenty fer two in the Ten Bow claim an'pardners is pardners."

Waseche ignored the suggestion:

"I'll be pullin' fer the Lillimuit in themo'nin'. Sorry ye won't jine me. I'll berollin' in, now. Good-night."

"So long! An' good luck to ye. I surehate to see ye go."

Early in the evening of the fourth dayafter Waseche Bill's departure for theunknown Lillimuit Connie Morgan swungMcDougall's ten-dog team into Eagle.

The boy, heeding the advice of BlackJack Demaree, had curbed his impatienceand religiously held himself to a ten-hour

schedule, and the result was easilyapparent in the way the dogs dashed up thesteep trail and swung into the well-packedstreet of the big camp.

In front of a wooden building marked"Post Office," he halted. A large man, justemerging from the door, stared inamusement at the tiny parka-clad figurethat confronted him.

"Hello, son!" he called. "Where mightyou be headin' fer?"

"I'm hunting for Waseche Bill," theyoungster replied. "Have you seen him?"

"That'll be Scotty McDougall's team,"observed the man.

"Yes, but have you seen Waseche?"

"You'll be Sam Morgan's boy," the mancontinued.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, come on along up to the hotel."

"Is Waseche there?" eagerly inquiredthe boy.

"Well, no, he ain't jes' right there, thisvery minute," replied the man, evasively.

"Where has he gone?" asked the boy,with a sudden fear in his heart.

"Oh, jes' siyou'd out on a littleprospectin' trip. Come on, I'll give ye ahand with the dogs—supper'll be aboutready."

That evening Connie Morgan foundhimself the centre of an interested group ofminers—rough, kindly men, whowelcomed him warmly, asked the news ofTen Bow, and recounted in awkward,hesitating sentences stories of his father.Before turning into the bunk assigned tohim, the boy sought out the proprietor ofthe hotel, who sat in the centre of aninterested group, discussing local politicswith a man from Circle.

"I'll pay my bill now, because I want tohit the trail before breakfast," he said,producing the well-filled pouch that BlackJack Demaree had thrust into his hand. BigJim Sontag chuckled way back in hisbeard as he regarded his littlest guest.

"Go 'long, yo', sonny! Shove yo' poke in

yo' pocket. Yo' welcome to stop undeh myroof long as yo' want to. Why, if I was tocha'ge yo' fo' boa'd an' lodgin' afteh whatyo' pap done fo' me, up on Tillimik—hopethe wolves'll eat me, hide an' taller!"

The man called Joe came around thestove and stood looking down at the boy.

"Look here, son, where you aimin' to hitfer so early in the mornin'?"

"Why, to find Waseche, of course!" Theboy seemed surprised at the question.

"To the Lillimuit!" someone gasped, butJoe silenced him.

"Son," he said, speaking slowly,"Waseche Bill's struck out fer theLillimuit—the country where men don't

come back from. Waseche's a man—an' agood one. He knows what he's up agin',an' if he wants to take a chanct that's hisbusiness. But, jes' between us, Wasechewon't come back." The boy's smallshoulders stiffened and his eyes flashed,as the little face uptilted to look into theman's eyes.

"If Waseche don't come back, then Idon't come back either!" he exclaimed."He's my pardner! I've got to find him!"

"That's what I call a man!" yelledFiddle Face, bringing his fist down uponthe table with a bang.

"Jes' the same, sonny," continued Joe,firmly, "we can't let ye go. We owes it toyou, an' we owes it to Sam Morgan.

They's too many a good man's bones layin'somewhere amongst them fiendish peaksan' passes, now. No, son, you c'n stay inEagle as long as you like, an' welcome.Or, you c'n hit the trail fer Ten Bow. Butyou can't strike out fer the Lillimuit—an'that goes!" There was finality in the man'stone, and one swift glance into the faces ofthe others told the boy that they were ofthe same mind, to a man. For the first timein his life, Connie Morgan faced theopposition of men. Instinctively he knewthat every man in the room was his friend,but never in his life had he felt sohelplessly alone. What could one smallboy do in the face of the ultimatum ofthese men of the North? Tears rushed tohis eyes and, for a moment, threatened tooverflow upon his cheeks, but, in that

moment, there arose before him the face ofWaseche Bill—his "pardner." The littlefists clenched, the grey eyes narrowed,forcing back the hot tears, and the tiny jawsquared to the gritting of his teeth.

"What could one small boy do in theface of the ultimatum of these men of

the North?"

"Good-night," he said, and selecting acandle from among the many on top of therude desk, disappeared down the darkcorridor between the rows of stall-likerooms.

"Jes' fo' all the wo'ld like Sam Mo'gan,"drawled big Jim Sontag. "I've saw hiseyes squinch up, an' his jaw clamp shut,that-a-way, a many a time—an' nary timebut somethin' happened. We've shore gotto keep an eye on that young un, 'cause heaims to give us the slip in the mo'nin'."

"Ye said somethin', then, Jim," agreedFiddle Face, gnawing at his mustache."The kid's got sand, an' he's game plumbthrough, an' when he starts somethin' he

aims to finish it—which like his dad usedto."

Connie Morgan, for all his tender years,knew men. He knew, when he left thegroup about the stove, that they wouldexpect him to try to slip out of Eagle, andthat if he waited until morning he wouldhave no chance in the world of eludingtheir vigilance. Minutes counted, for healso knew that once on the trail, he needhave no fear of pursuit; for no team in theYukon country, save only Dutch Henry'sHudson Bays, could come anywhere nearthe trail record of McDougall's ten gauntmalamutes.

Pausing only long enough in the littleroom with its scrawling "No. 27" paintedon the door to wriggle into his parka and

snatch his cap from the bunk, he stolecautiously down the narrow passageleading to the rear of the ell, where asmall door opened directly into thestockade. With feverish haste heharnessed the dogs and opened the gate. Inthe shadow of the building he paused andpeered anxiously up and down the street.No one was in sight and, through theheavily frosted windows of the buildings,dull squares of light threw but faintillumination upon the desertedthoroughfare.

"Mush! Mush!" he whispered, swingingthe long team out onto the hard-packedsnow.

As he passed a store the door openedand a man stood outlined in the patch of

yellow light. Connie's heart leaped to histhroat, but the man only stared in evidentsurprise that any one would be hitting thetrail at that time of night, and then the doorclosed and the boy breathed again. Hewished that he could stop and lay in asupply of grub, but dared not risk it. Betterpay twice the price to some prospector, ortrapper, than risk being stopped.

Silently the sled glided over the smoothtrail and slanted out onto the river withBoris, Mutt, and Slasher capering in itswake.

Connie had only a vague notion as tothe location of the unknown Lillimuit. Heknew that it lay somewhere among theunmapped headwaters of Peel River, andthat he must head up the Tatonduk and

cross a divide. Toward morning he haltedat the mouth of a river that flowed in fromthe north-east. A little-used trail wasfaintly discernible and the boy called theold lead dog.

"Go find Waseche, Boris!" he cried,"go find him!" Notwithstanding the factthat Waseche's trail was nearly five daysold, the old dog sniffed at the snow and,with a joyous yelp, headed up the smallerriver.

The next morning there wasconsternation in Eagle, and a half-dozendog sleds hit the trail. About ten miles upthe Tatonduk, the men of Eagle met a half-breed trapper with an empty sled.

"Any one pass ye, goin' up?" asked Joe.

The trapper grinned.

"Yeste'day," he answered, "white manpapoose"; he held his hand about four feetfrom the snow. "Ten-dog team—Mush!Mush! Mush! Go like de wolf! Stop on mycamp. Buy all de grub. Nev' min' de cost—hur' up! He try for catch white man, goby four sleeps ago." Joe cracked his whipand the dogs leaped forward.

"You no catch!" the half-breed shouted."Papoose, him go! go! go! Try for mak'Lillimuit. Him no come back."

Disregarding the prediction of the half-breed, Joe, Fiddle Face, and big JimSontag continued their pursuit of the flyingdog team, despite the fact that as theyprogressed the trail grew colder. After

many days they came to the foot of thegreat white divide and camped beneathovercast skies, and in the morning a stormbroke with unbelievable fury.

Every man, woman, and child in easternAlaska remembers the great blizzard thatwhirled out of the north on the morning ofthe third of December and raged unabatedfor four days, ceased as suddenly as itstarted, and then, for four days more,roared terrifically into the north again.

On the ninth day, the three menburrowed from their shelter at the foot of aperpendicular cliff. The trail wasobliterated, and on every hand they wereconfronted by huge drifts from ten to thirtyfeet in height, while above them, clingingprecariously to the steep side of the

mountain that divided them from thedreaded unknown, were vast ridges ofsnow that momentarily threatened to tearloose and bury them beneath a mightyavalanche.

Silently the men stared into each other'sfaces, and then—silently, for none daredtrust himself to speak—these big men ofthe North harnessed their dogs and beganthe laborious homeward journey withheavy hearts.

And, at that very moment, a small boy,eighty miles beyond the impassablebarrier of the snow-capped divide,tunnelled through a huge drift that sealedthe mouth of an ice cavern in the side of aninland glacier, and looked out upon thebewildering tangle of gleaming peaks.Thanks to the unerring nose of old Boris,and the speed of McDougall's sled dogs,the trail of Waseche had each day becomewarmer, and the night before the storm,when Connie camped in the convenientice-cavern, he judged his partner to beonly a day ahead. When the stormcontinued day after day, he chafed at thedelay, but comforted himself with thethought that Waseche must also camp.

As he stood at the mouth of his cave

gazing at the unfamiliar mountains,towering range upon range, with theirpeaks glittering in the cold rays of themorning sun, old Boris crowded past himand plunged into the unbroken whitenessof the little valley. Round and round hecircled with lowered head. Up and downthe jagged ice wall of the glacier he ran,sniffing the snow and whining witheagerness to pick up the trail that he hadfollowed for so many days. And as theboy watched him, a sudden fear clutchedat his heart. For instead of starting off withshort, joyous yelps of confidence, the olddog continued his aimless circling, and atlength, as if giving up in despair, sat uponhis haunches, pointed his sharp muzzleskyward, and lifted his voice in howl afterquavering howl of disappointment.

"The trail is buried," groaned the boy,"and I had almost caught up with him!" Heglanced hopelessly up and down thevalley, realizing for the first time that thelandmarks of the back trail wereobliterated. His eyes narrowed and hegritted his teeth:

"I'll find him yet," he muttered. "MyDad always played in hard luck—but henever quit! I'll find Waseche—but, if Idon't find him, the big men back there thatknew Sam Morgan—they'll know SamMorgan's boy was no quitter, either!" Heturned away from the entrance and beganto harness the dogs.

Way down the valley, high on thesurface of the glacier, Waseche Billstopped suddenly to listen. Faint and far, asound was borne to his ears through thethin, cold air. He jerked back his parkahood and strained to catch the faint echo.Again he heard it—the long, bell-likehowl of a dog—and as he listened, theman's face paled, and a strange pricklingsensation started at the roots of his hairand worked slowly along his spine. Forthis man of the North knew dogs. Even inthe white fastness of the terrible Lillimuithe could not be mistaken.

"Boris! Boris!" he cried, and whirlinghis wolf-dogs in their tracks, dashed overthe windswept surface of the glacier in thedirection of the sound.

"I can't be wrong! I can't be wrong!" herepeated over and over again, "I raisedhim from a pup!"

CHAPTER VIIIN THE LILLIMUIT

Speak desolation. What does it mean toyou? What picture rises before your eyes?A land laid waste by the ravages of war?A brain picture of sodden, trampledfields, leaning fences, grey piles ofsmoking ashes which are the ruins ofhomes, flanking a long, white, unpeopledhighway strewn with litter, brokenwagons, abandoned caissons, and, hereand there, long fresh-heaved ridges ofbrown earth that cover the men who were?Isn't that the picture? And isn't it theevening of a dull grey day, just at the time

when the gloom of twilight shades into theblack pall of night, and way toward theedge of the world, on the indistincthorizon, a lurid red glow tints the low-hung clouds—no flames—only the dull,illusive glow that wavers and fades in theheavens above other burning homes? Yes,that is desolation. And, yet—men havebeen here—everything about you speaksthe presence of people. Here people livedand loved and were happy; and here, also,they were heartbroken and sad. The wholepicture breathes humanity—and theinhumanity of men. And, as people havelived here, instinctively you know thatpeople will live here again; for this isman-made desolation.

Only those to whom it has been given to

know the Big North—the gaunt, white,silent land beyond the haunts of men—canrealize the true significance of desolation.

Stand surrounded by range upontowering range of unmapped mountainswhose clean-cut peaks show clear andsharp through the keen air—air so dry andthin that the slanting rays of the low-hungmidday sun gleam whitely upon theoutlines of ice crags a hundred milesaway. Stand there alone, enveloped by thesolitude of the land where men neverlived—nor ever will live—where thesilence is a thing, pressing closer andcloser about you—smothering you—sothat, instinctively, you throw out yourhands to push it away that you may breathe—then you begin to know desolation—the

utter desolation of the frozen wilderness,the cold, dead land of mystery.

The long howl of the great grey wolf ashe lopes over the hunger trail is an eeriesound; so is the cackling, insane laughterof a pack of coyotes in the night-time, andthe weird scream of the loup-cervier; butof all sounds, the most desolate, the soundthat to the ears of man spells the last wordof utter solitude and desolation, is theshort, quick, single bark of the Arctic foxas he pads invisible as a phantom in hishaunts among the echoing rim-rocks. Amidthese surroundings, brains give way. Notsoften into maudlin idiocy, but explode ina frenzy of violence, so that men rushscreaming before the relentless solitude;or fight foolishly and to the death against

the powers of cold amid the unrealcolours of the aurora borealis whosewhizzing hiss roars in their ears when, atthe last, they pitch forward into the frozenwhiteness—bushed!

This was the scene of desolation thatconfronted Connie Morgan asMcDougall's straining malamutes jerkedthe sled from the ice-cavern that hadserved as a shelter through all the days ofthe great blizzard, when the wind-lashedsnow, fine as frozen fog, eddied andwhirled across the surface of the glacierwhich towered above him, and drifteddeep in the narrow pass.

The sled runners squeaked loudly in theflinty snow, and Connie halted the dogsand surveyed the forbidding landscape.

Never in his life had he been so utterlyalone. For twenty days he had followedthe trail of Waseche Bill, and now hestood at the end of the trail—worse thanthat, for the high piled drifts that buriedthe trail of Waseche covered his own backtrail, completely wiping out the oneslender thread that connected him with theland of men. He stood alone in thedreaded Lillimuit! Before him rose aconfusion of mountains—tier after tier ofnaked peaks clear and sharp against theblue sky. Fresh as he was from the greatAlaska ranges, the boy was strangelyawed by the vastness of it all. It wasunreal. He missed the black-green of thetimber belt that relieved the long sweep ofhis own mountains, for here, from roundedfoothill to topmost pinnacle, the mountains

were as bare of vegetation as floatingicebergs. The very silence was unnaturaland the boy's lips pressed tightly togetheras thoughts of Ten Bow crowded hisbrain: the windlass-capped shafts, thefresh dumps that showed against the whitesnow of the valley; the red flash and glowof the fires in the night that thawed out thegravel for the next day's digging; the roughlog cabins ranged up and down the gulchin two straggling rows—he could almosthear the good-natured banter which wasdaily exchanged across the frozen creekbed between the rival residents ofBroadway and "Fiff Avenue," as the twoirregular "streets" of the camp werenamed. He thought of his own cabin andthe long evenings with his big partner,Waseche Bill, sitting close to the roaring

little "Yukon stove," puffing contentedlyupon his black pipe, which he removednow and then from between his lips tojudiciously comment upon the stories thatthe boy read from the man-thumbed,coverless magazines of other years, whichhad been passed from hand to hand by thebig men of the frozen places.

A lump came in his throat and heswallowed hard, and as he looked, thenaked peaks blurred and swam together;and two hot, salty tears stung his eyes. Atthe sting of the tears the little formstiffened and the boy glanced swiftlyabout him as, with a mittened hand, hedashed the moisture from his eyes. Thesmall fingers clenched hard about thehandle of the long-lashed, walrus hide dog

whip, and he stepped quickly to the gee-pole of the sled.

"I'm a piker!" he cried, "a chechakoand a kid and a tin-horn and a piker!Crying like a girl because I'm homesick!Bah! What would Waseche say if he couldsee me now? And Dad? There was a man!Sam Morgan!" The little arms extendedimpulsively toward the great white peaksand the big blue eyes glowed proudly:

"Oh, Dad! Dad! They call you unlucky!But I'd rather have the big men back therethink of me like they talk of you, than tohave all the gold in the world!" He leapedsuddenly beyond the sled and shook a tinyclenched fist toward the glittering crags.

"I'm not a piker!" he cried, fiercely. "I

couldn't be a piker, and be Sam Morgan'sboy! I got here in spite of the men ofEagle! And I'll find Waseche, too! I'm notafraid of you! You cold, white Lillimuit—with your big, bare, frozen mountains, andyour glaciers, and your stillness! You can'tbluff me! You may get me—but you can'tturn me! I'm game!"

As the voice of the boy thinned into thecold air, Slasher, the gaunt, red-eyedwolf-dog, that no man had ever tamed,ranged himself close at his side and, withbristling hair and bared fangs, added hisrumbling, throaty growl to ConnieMorgan's defiance of the North.

With a high-pitched whoop ofencouragement and a loud crack of thewhip, the boy swung the impatient ten-

team to the westward and headed it downthe canyon into the very heart of theLillimuit. High mountains towered abovehim to the left, and to the right the sheerwall of the glacier formed aninsurmountable barrier. The dry, hard-packed snow afforded excellent footingand McDougall's trained sled dogs madegood time as they followed the lead of oldBoris who, trotting in advance, unerringlypicked the smoothest track between thedetached masses of ice and granite that inplaces all but blocked the narrowinggorge, into which the trail of Waseche Billhad led on the first day of the greatblizzard.

Mile after mile they covered, and as thewalls drew closer together the light

dimmed, for the slanting rays of the wintersun even at midday never penetrated to thefloor of the narrow canyon. As he roundeda sharp bend, Connie halted the dogs indismay for, a short distance in front ofhim, the ice-wall of the glacier slantedsuddenly against the granite shoulder of ahigh butte. Wide eyed, he stared at thebarrier. He was in a blind pocket—a cul-de-sac of the mountains! But where wasWaseche? Weary and disappointed theboy seated himself on the sled to reason itout.

"There must be a way out," he argued."I didn't camp till the snow got so thick Icouldn't see, and he had to camp, too. If hedoubled back I would have seen him." Hestarted to his feet in a sudden panic. "I

wonder if he did—while I slept?" Then,as his glance fell upon the dogs, hesmiled. "You bet, he didn't!" he criedaloud, "not with thirteen wolf-dogscamped beside the trail. Slasher wouldgrowl and bristle up if a man came withinhalf a mile of us, and Waseche couldnever get past old Boris." He rememberedthe words of Black Jack Demaree: "Neverset up yer own guess agin' a good dog'snose." Connie Morgan was learning theNorth—he was trusting his dogs.

"There's a trail, somewhere," heexclaimed, "and it's up to me to find it!"He cracked his whip, but instead ofleaping to the pull, the dogs crouchedquivering in the snow. The groundtrembled as in the throes of a mighty

earthquake and the boy whirled in histracks as the canyon reverberated to thecrash of a thousand thunders. He dashed tothe point where, a few minutes before, hehad rounded the sharp angle of the trailand gasped at the sight that met his gaze.The weather-whitened ice of the glacierwall was rent and shivered in a broad,green scar, and in the canyon a mass ofbroken ice fifty feet high completelyblocked the back trail. He wasimprisoned! Not in a man-made jail ofiron bars and concrete—but a veritableprison of the wilderness, whoseimpregnable walls of ice and graniteseemed to touch the far-off sky. The boy'sheart sank as he gazed upon theperpendicular wall that barred the trail.For just an instant his lip quivered and

then the little shoulders stiffened and theblue eyes narrowed as they had narrowedthat evening he faced the men of Eagle.

"You didn't get me, Lillimuit!" heshouted. "You'll have to shoot the otherbarrel!" His voice echoed hollow and thinbetween the gloomy walls, and he turnedto the dogs. Old Boris, always in searchof a trail, sniffed industriously about thebase of the glacier. Big, lumbering Mutt,who in harness could out-pull any dog inthe Northland, rolled about in the snowand barked foolishly in his excitement.Slasher, more wolf than dog, stoodsnarling his red-eyed hate in the face ofthe new-formed ice barrier. AndMcDougall's malamutes, wise in the waysof the snow trail, stood alert, with eyes on

the face of the boy, awaiting his command.

Forty rods ahead, where the cul-de-sacterminated in a great moraine, Conniecould discern a tangle of scrub growth anddead timber pushed aside by the glacier.The short, three-hour day was spent, andthe gloomy walls of the narrow gorgeintensified the mysterious semi-darknessof the long, sub-arctic night. The boyshouted to the dogs, and the crack of hislong whiplash echoed in the chasm like apistol shot. At the foot of the moraine heunharnessed and fed the dogs, spread hisrobes in the shelter of a bold-faced greyrock, and unrolled his sleeping bag. Hebuilt a fire and thawed out some bannock,over which he poured the grease from thepan of sizzling bacon. Connie was hungry

and he devoured his solitary mealgreedily, washing it down with great gulpsof steaming black coffee. After supper,surrounded by the thirteen big dogs, hemade a hasty inspection of the walls of hisprison. The light was dim and he realizedhe would have to wait until daylightbefore making anything like a thoroughexamination; nevertheless, he wasunwilling to sleep until he had made atleast one effort to locate the trail to theouter world.

An hour later he crawled into hissleeping bag and lay a long time lookingupward at the little stars that winked andglittered in cold, white brilliance wherethe narrow panel of black-blue showedbetween the towering walls of the canyon.

"I'll get out someway," he mutteredbravely.

"My dad would have got out, and, youbet, so will I!"

"If I can't walk out, I'll crawl out, orclimb out, or dig out! My dad would havegot out, and, you bet, so will I! He wasn'tafraid to tackle big things—he was readyfor 'em. What got him was a little thing—just a little piece of loose ice on a smoothtrail—he wasn't looking for it—that's all.But, at that, when he pitched head first intoRagged Falls canyon that day, he died likea man dies—in the big outdoors, with themountains, and the pine trees, and thesnow! And that's the way I'll die! If Inever get out of this hole, when they findme they won't find me in this sleeping bag—'cause I'll work to the end of my grub.I'll dig, and chop, and hack a way out till

my grub's gone, then I'll—I'll eat Mac'sdogs—and when they're gone I'll—No! ByJimminy! I won't eat old Boris, norSlasher, nor Mutt—I'll—I'll starve first!"He reached for the flap of his sleepingbag, and as he drew it over his head therecame, faint and far from the rim-rocks, theshort, sharp bark of a starving fox.

CHAPTER VIIIWASECHE BILL TO THE RESCUE

When Waseche Bill sent his dogs flyingover the surface of the glacier in answerto the bell-like call of old Boris, he fullyexpected that the end of a half-hour wouldfind him at the dog's side. Sound carriesfar in the keen northern air, and the manurged his team to its utmost. As the sledrunners slipped smoothly over the ice andfrozen snow, his mind was filled withperplexing questions. How came oldBoris into the Lillimuit? Had he desertedthe boy and followed the trail of his oldmaster?

"No, no!" muttered the man. "Hewouldn't pull out on the kid, that-a-way—an', what's mo', if he had, he'd of catchedup with me long befo' now."

Was it possible that the boy had takenthe trail? The man's brow puckered. Whatwas it Joe said, that night in Eagle?

"S'pose he follers ye?"

"He couldn't of!" argued Waseche. "It'splumb onpossible, with them there threeol' dawgs. An' he'd of neveh got pastEagle—Fiddle Face, an' Joe, an' JimSontag, they wouldn't of let him by—notfo' to go to the Lillimuit, they wouldn't—not in a hund'ed yea's."

The dogs swerved, bringing the outfit to

an abrupt halt on the brink of a yawningfissure. Waseche Bill scowled at thedelay.

"Sho' some crevasse," he growled, ashe peered into the depths of the great icecrack fifty feet wide, which barred hispath. Suddenly his eye lighted and heswung the dogs to the southward where, aquarter of a mile away, a great whitesnow bridge spanned the chasm in aglittering arch. Seizing his axe, hechopped two parallel trenches in the iceclose to the end of the bridge. Into theseeight-inch depressions he worked therunners of the heavily loaded sled, takingcare that the blunt rear end of the runnersrested firmly against the vertical ends ofthe trenches. Uncoiling a long babiche

line, he tied one end to the tail rope of theanchored sled and, after making the otherend fast about his waist, venturedcautiously out upon the snow bridge. Footby foot he advanced, testing its strength.The bridge was wide and thick, andevidently quite old and firm, but WasecheBill was a man who took no foolish risks.

Men who seek gold learn to face dangerbravely—it is part of the day's work—fordeath dogs close upon the trail of the menof the North and must be reckoned withupon short notice. Every tillicum in theWhite Country, if he would, could tell ofhairbreadth escapes, and of times when aclear brain and iron nerve alone stoodbetween him and the Great Beyond. But ofthese things they rarely speak—for they

know of the others, like Sam Morgan,whose work is done, and whose namesare burned into the little wooden crossesthat dot the white snow of Aurora Land;and whose memory remains fresh in thehaunts of the sourdoughs, where theirdeeds are remembered long and respectedwhen the flash bravado of the reckless tin-horn is scorned and forgotten.

Satisfying himself that the bridge wouldbear the weight of the outfit, Waseche Billuntied the rope and headed the dogsacross at a run.

The surface of the glacier becamerougher as he advanced and Waseche waskept busy at the gee-pole as the dogsthreaded their way between ice hummocksand made long detours to avoid cracks and

fissures, so that the winter sun was justsinking behind the mountains when theman at last found himself upon the edge ofthe glacier, at a point some distance abovethe cave where Connie Morgan had soughtshelter from the storm. He looked out overthe undulating ridges of snow waste thatstretched away toward a nearby spur ofthe mountains. Intently he scanned eachnook and byway of the frozen desert, butnot a moving object, not a single black dotthat might by any stretch of the imaginationbe construed as a living thing, rewardedhis careful scrutiny. Gradually his eyesfocused upon the point where themountains dipped toward the great icefield.

"Yonde's the mouth of the canyon I

headed into befo' the blizza'd. I'd bet ablue one the old dawg's trailed me in."Filling his lungs Waseche sent call aftercall quavering through the still, keen air,but the only answer was the hollowechoing of his own voice as it died awayin the mountains. A mile to the eastwardhe worked his outfit into the valley,following the devious windings of a half-formed lateral moraine, and headed thedogs for the mouth of the canyon.

He searched in vain for tracks as heentered the narrow pass. The snow wassmooth and untrampled as the drivingwind of the blizzard had left it.

"Sho' is queeah," he muttered. "Sweahto goodness, I hea'd that Boris dawg—I'dknow that howl if I hea'd it in Kingdom

Come—an' I know it now! I wondeh," hemused, as the team followed the deviouswindings of the canyon, "I wondeh if thisheah Lillimuit is a kind of spirit land likefolks says. Did I really heah the ol' dawghowl, or has the big Nawth got me, too,like it done got Carlson, an' the rest?'Cause if they was a dawg wheah's histracks? An' if it was a ghost dawg, howcould he howl?" The sled dogs paused,sniffing excitedly at the snow, andWaseche Bill leaped forward. Before themouth of an ice-cavern were many tracks,and the man stared dumbfounded.

"Fo' the love of Mike!" he criedexcitedly. "It's the kid!" He dropped to hisknees and patted affectionately theimpressions of the tiny mukluks. "Boy!

Boy! Yo' li'l ol' sourdough, yo' li'l pa'dner—How'd yo' get heah? Yo' done come,jes' as Joe 'lowed yo' would—yo'doggone li'l tillicum! Come all alone, too!Jes' wait 'til I catch holt of yo'—an'McDougall's dawgs! No one in Alaskacould a loaned them malamutes offenMac, 'cept yo'—theah's ol' Scah Foot, thatlost two toes in the wolf-trap!" The manleaped to the sled and cracked his whip.

"Mush! Mush!" he cried, and the dogsbounded forward upon the trail of the boy.

Waseche Bill traversed this samecanyon on the day before the blizzard. He,too, had run up against the dead end, and itwas while retracing his steps that he haddiscovered the sheep trail, by means ofwhich he gained the surface of the glacier

a mile back from the termination of thegorge. He grinned broadly as his sled shotpast the foot of this trail, entirelyobliterated, now, by the new-fallen snow.

"I got yo', now, kid," he chuckled."Holed up like a silveh tip 'till the sto'mblowed by, didn't yo', pa'dner? But I gotyo' back ag'in, an' from now on, me an' yo'sticks togetheh. I done the wrong thing—togo' way—but yo' so plumb li'l, I fo'got yo'was a sho' nuff man."

His soliloquy was cut short by thesudden stopping of the sled as it bumpedupon the heels of the "wheel" dogs, andfor the next few minutes the man was busywith whip and mukluks straightening outthe tangle of fighting animals. Dashing inthe darkness between a huge granite block

and the wall of the glacier, they hadbrought up sharply against the new-formedice barrier that completely blocked thetrail.

Slashing right and left with his heavywhip, and kicking vigorously andimpartially, he finally succeeded insubduing the fighting dogs and removingthe tangled harness. And then he stareddumbly at the great mass of broken ice thatburied the trail of the boy. In the darknesshe could form no conception of the extentof the barrier. Was it a detached fragment?Or had the whole side of the glacier splitaway and crashed into the canyon? Beforehis eyes rose the picture of a small bodycrushed and mangled beneath thousands oftons of ice, and for the first time in his life

Waseche Bill gave way to his emotions.Sinking down upon the sled he buried hisface in his hands and in the darkness,surrounded by the whimpering dogs, hisgreat shoulders heaved to the violence ofhis sobs.

The great mass of ice that split from theglacier's side, while presenting anunscalable face to the imprisoned boy,was by no means so formidable a barrierwhen approached from the opposite side.

Waseche Bill was not the man toremain long inactive. After a few momentshe sprang to his feet and surveyed the hugepile of ice fragments. By the feeble lightof the stars he could see that the walls ofthe canyon towered high above the top ofthe mass. Tossing his dogs an armful of

frozen fish, he caught up the coil ofbabiche rope and stepped to the foot ofthe obstruction.

"I cain't wait till mawnin'," he muttered,"I got to find out if the kid is safe. ReckonI c'n make it, but I sho' do wish they wasmo' light."

It was not a difficult climb for a manused to the snow trails, and a half hourlater Waseche Bill stood at the top and,with a long sigh of relief, gazed into thedepths beyond the barrier.

"Thank the Lawd, it's only a slivah!" heexclaimed. "But, at that, it mout of catchedhim." With a kick he sent a small fragmentof ice spinning into the chasm. Almostinstantly, the man heard a low growl, and

his eye caught the flash of an indistinctgrey shape against the snow floor belowhim. Straight as an arrow the shape shottoward the ice wall, and Waseche Billheard the scratching of claws upon theflinty surface, and a low, throaty growl asthe shape dropped back into the snow. Helaughed aloud.

"Oh, yo' Slashah dawg!" he criedhappily, as he proceeded to make the endof his long line fast to a projectingpinnacle.

"I'll jes' slip down an' s'prise the kid,"he chuckled, "he's prob'ly rolled in bynow." Taking a couple of turns about hisleg with the rope, he lowered himself overthe edge and slid slowly downward.Suddenly, he gripped hard and checked

his descent. He was ten feet from thebottom, and something struck the rope justbeneath his feet, and as it struck, he heardagain the low growl, and the vicious clickof fang on polished fang, and the soft thudwith which the wolf-dog struck the snow.

"Hey, yo' Slashah!" he called sharply."Go lay down! It's only me, Slashah—don't yo' know me?" For answer the dogsprang again, and the man hastily drewhimself higher—for this time the longwhite fangs clashed together almost at hisfeet, and the low growl ended in a snarl asthe grey body dropped back upon thesnow.

"Doggone yo'! Quit yo' foolin'! Git out!"cried the exasperated man, as he tightenedhis grip on the swaying line. And then,

beneath him, the canyon seemed filledwith dogs—gaunt, grey shapes that sprang,and snapped, and growled, and fell backto spring again.

"Now, what d'yo' think of that,"muttered the man disgustedly, as he peereddownward into green glaring eyes andslavering jaws. "Mac's dawg's, too! I'dsho' hate fo' this heah rope to break!Theh's ol' Boris!" he exclaimed, as thelead dog appeared at the edge of thesnarling pack. "Hello, Boris, ol' dawg!Yo' know me—don't yo', Boris?" With ashort, sharp yelp of delight, the dogdashed in and leaped toward his oldmaster, but his activity served only to eggon the others, and they redoubled theirefforts to reach the swaying man. Waseche

Bill laughed:

"Now, what d'yo' think of that! I'd sho'hate fo' this heah rope to break!"

"'Taint no use. Reckon I'll have to wakeup the kid." And the next moment the wallsof the canyon rang with his calls for help.

At the other end of the chasm ConnieMorgan stirred uneasily and thrust hishead from under the flap of his sleepingbag. He listened drowsily to thepandemonium of growls and yelps andsnarls, from the midst of which cameindistinctly the sound of a voice. Hebecame suddenly wide-awake and,wriggling from the bag, caught up his dogwhip and sped swiftly up the canyon.

It was no easy task for the boy to beatthe excited dogs into submission, but at

length they slunk away before the stingingsweep of the lash, and Waseche Bill, hishands numb from his long gripping of therope, slid squarely into the up-reachingarms of his little partner.

"Yo' sho' saved my bacon that time, kid.Why, that theah Slashah dawg—he'd of etme alive, an' the rest w'd done likewise,onct they got sta'ted!" Waseche Bill'stongue rattled off the words with which hesought to disguise the real emotion of hisheart at finding the boy he had learned tolove, safe and sound in the great whitewilderness. But Connie Morgan was notdeceived, and he smiled happily into therough hair of his big partner's parka, asthe man strained him to him in a bearlikeembrace.

That night the two sat long over thecamp fire at the foot of the moraine, andthe heart of the man swelled with pride asthe boy recounted his adventures on thetrail.

"And now I've found you," concludedthe boy, "I'm going to take you back.Pardners are pardners, you know—andtomorrow we'll hit for Ten Bow."

The man turned his face away andbecame busily engaged in arranging therobes into a bed close against the boy'ssleeping bag.

"We sho' will, kid. Pa'dners is pa'dners,an'—me an' yo'—somehow—I cain't jes'say it—but—anyways—Why! Doggone it!Me an' yo's mo'n jes pa'dners—ain't we,

kid?"

Later, as the man burrowed deep intohis robes a voice sounded drowsily fromthe depths of the sleeping bag:

"Waseche!"

"Huh?" questioned the man.

"Black Jack Demaree said to tell you—let's see—what was it he said? Oh, yes—he said when I found you to tell you that'you can't tell by the size of a frog how farhe can jump.'"

Waseche Bill chuckled happily tohimself:

"Yo' sho' cain't," he agreed. "BlackJack's right about that—trouble is, I nevah

know'd much about frawgs."

CHAPTER IXTHE WHITE DEATH

It was yet dark when Waseche Billopened his eyes and blinked sleepily intothe small face that smiled down at him inthe light of the flickering fire. The richaroma of boiling coffee and the appetizingodour of bacon roused him to his sensesand he grinned happily at the words of theboy:

"Come on, pardner, grub's ready! Andyou better fly at it, too. 'Cause if I knowanything about it, we'll sure know we'vedone something by the time we get the

outfit out of this hole."

Waseche glanced upward where thetiny stars winked coldly between the highwalls of the gloomy gorge in which SamMorgan's boy found himself held prisonerwhen the huge mass of ice detached itselffrom the side of the glacier and crashedinto the canyon.

"Yo' sho's on the job, son—seem's if Ijest got good an' asleep. What time is it?"he asked, as he crawled from beneath hisrobes.

"Six o'clock," answered the boyextending a cup of steaming coffee.

"Six o'clock! Sufferin' cats! Three hourstill daylight—Ain't yo got no pity on the

ol' man?"

"Old man, nothing!" grinned Connieover the rim of his tin cup. "But if youwait for daylight to come down into thebottom of this well, you will be an oldman before you get out."

Breakfast over, the two packed theoutfit and, without harnessing the dogs,pulled the sled to the foot of the barrier.Here it was unloaded and the pack madeinto bundles suitable for hoisting. The sledwas the heaviest piece and the only onethat offered a serious problem. It wasdecided that Connie should remain belowand make the things fast, while Wasecheclimbed to the top and did the hoisting. Asling was rigged from a strip of oldblanket, by means of which the dogs could

be lifted, by passing it under their belliesand fastening it to the rope at their backs.When all was ready Waseche grasped theswaying babiche line, by means of whichhe had lowered himself the previousevening.

"Cain't grip nothin' with mittens on," hegrumbled, as he bared his hands to theintense cold. Next moment he was pullinghimself jerkily upward, hand over hand,while Connie Morgan stood below andwatched the indistinct outline of the manwho swayed and dangled above him, forall the world like a giant spider ascendinga thread of invisible web.

The rope twitched violently as the mandrew himself onto the top of the barrier,and a few minutes later the regular taps of

his ice axe sounded, as Waseche choppedhis "heel holts" as close to the edge assafety permitted. The tapping ceased andthe voice of the man rolled andreverberated between the walls of thecistern-like chasm.

"All set, kid!"

"Haul away!" and immediately the balecontaining the two sleeping bags swungclear of the snow and was drawn upward,spinning and bumping the ice wall. Otherbales followed and soon there remainedonly the dogs and the sled. After manyunsuccessful efforts to induce the wolf-dogs to submit to the unaccustomed sling,Connie hit upon the expedient ofharnessing them to the sled, for evenMcDougall's finely trained dogs, like all

malamutes, were wolves at heart andwere trustworthy and tractable only inharness. This accomplished, theysubmitted readily enough and, beginningwith the "wheel dogs," one at a time,Connie passed the sling about them andcast off the harness at the same time.Waseche hauled them, snarling and bitingat the encircling band, up the face of theperpendicular wall. Old Boris and good-natured Mutt submitted without a growl ofprotest; but it was different with theuntamed savage Slasher. During the wholeunusual proceeding the suspicious wolf-dog had bristled and growled, and severaltimes it was only by the narrowest marginthat Connie succeeded in averting atragedy, as Slasher leaped with flashingfangs toward a sled dog dangling

helplessly from the rope's end. At lastSlasher alone remained. The boy calledhim. He came, with hair abristle, steppingslowly and stiffly. His eyes glared red,and way back in his throat rumbled long,low growls.

"Come on! You can't bluff me—you oldgrouch, you!" laughed the boy, andstooping, slipped a heavy collar about hisneck. Passing a running noose about thelong pointed muzzle, he secured the freeend to the collar, and to make assurancedoubly sure, he tied a strip torn from theold blanket tightly about the dog's jaws,affixed the sling, and gave the signal.

It was not for his own protection thatthe boy thus muzzled Slasher. In all theNorthland he was the only person who did

not fear the wild, vicious brute, for heknew that rather than harm him themalamute would have allowed himself tobe torn in pieces. But he feared forWaseche Bill when he came to releasehim. Despite the fact that he had livedwith Waseche for a year, the dog treatedhim no whit differently than he treated theveriest stranger. To one person in all theworld—and only one—the wolf-dogowed allegiance, and that person wasConnie Morgan—the first and onlycreature of the hated man tribe who hadused him with fairness.

Again the line was lowered andConnie, making his own line fast to thesled, grasped the loose end, seatedhimself in the loop of Waseche's, and gave

the signal. Up, up, he rose, fending offfrom the wall with feet and hands. Atlength he reached the top and the strongarms of Waseche helped him over theedge. After a brief rest, both laid hold ofthe remaining line and hauled away at thesled. The pull taxed their combinedstrength to the utmost, but the heavy sledwas up at last, and they stood free uponthe top of the barrier.

Their labours had consumed the greaterpart of the day, and it was well after noonwhen they sat down to a hasty lunch ofcaribou charqui and suet.

"I would never have made it!"exclaimed the boy, thoughtfully, as hiseyes travelled over the perpendicularwalls of the yawning chasm. "Put her

there, pardner," he said, gravely extendinghis hand toward Waseche. The mangrasped the small, mittened hand andwrung it hard:

"Sho' now! Sho' now!" he protestedhastily. "Yo' mout of." But the boy noticedthat Waseche turned from the place with ashudder.

The work of packing the outfit downinto the canyon occupied the remainder ofthe day and that night they camped at thefoot of the barrier, where Waseche hadleft his own outfit.

"Now for Ten Bow! I sure do loveevery log and daub of chinking in thatcabin. When fellows own their own home—like we do—when they built it with

their own hands, you know—a fellow getshomesick when he's away—'specially ifhe's all alone. Didn't you get homesick,too, pardner?"

Waseche Bill dropped the harness hewas untangling, and stepping to the boy'sside, laid a big hand upon the smallshoulder:

"Yes, kid," he answered, in a softvoice, "I be'n homesick every minute Ibe'n gone. An' that night—jest befo' I left,I was homesickest of all. I thought it wasthe squa'h thing to do—but I've learnt aheap since, that I didn't know then. Tellme, son, if yo' love the cabin so, why didyo' come away? The claim was yo'n. Iwrote it out that way a purpose." Theclear grey eyes of the boy looked up into

the man's face.

"Why—why, after you were gone, it—itwasn't the same any more. I—I hated theplace. Maybe it's because I'm only a boy——"

"Yes," interrupted the man, speakingslowly, as if to himself. "Yo' only a boy—jest a little boy—an' yet—" his voicebecame suddenly husky, and he turnedaway: "Folks calls Sam Mo'gan unlucky!"He cleared his throat loudly, and again thebig hand rested on the boy's shoulder:

"Listen, kid, I've had cabins befo' now—a many a one, on big creeks an' little—an' I've come off an' left 'em all, an' neveha onct was I homesick. But this time I was—it was diffe'nt. Shucks, kid, don't yo'

see? It takes mo'n jest a cabin to make—home."

Soon the outfits were ready for the trail.

"We sho' got dawgs enough," grinnedWaseche, as he eyed the two teams;"McDougall's ten, eight of mine, an' themthree of yo'n—we betteh mush, too, 'causeit takes a sight of feed fo' twenty-onedawgs. I 'lowed to run acrost meat befo'now—caribou, or moose, or sheep—butthis heah Lillimuit's as cold an' dead asthe outeh voids that the lecture felleh wastellin' about in Dawson. I got rightint'rested in the place—till I come to findout it was too fah off to botheh about, bein'located way oveh back of the sunsomewheahs."

At a crack of the whip, Waseche's dogssprang into the lead, and McDougall'smalamutes, with Connie trotting besidethem, swung in behind. There was nowind, and in the narrow canyon soundswere strangely magnified. The squeak ofsled runners on the hard, dry snowsounded loud and sharp as the creak of awindlass, and, as they passed the foot ofthe snow-covered sheep trail, the voice ofWaseche boomed and reverberatedunnaturally:

"Yondeh's the ol' sheep trail wheah Igot out of the canyon. Neah's I c'n makeout it ain't be'n used fo' mo'n a month. I tellyo' what—times is sho' hawd when thesheep pulls out of a country."

It was very cold. Toward midday the

windings of the canyon allowed themoccasional glimpses of the low-hung sun.It had a strange unfamiliar appearance,like a huge eye of polished brass, glaringcoldly in a bright white light not its own.As each turn of the trail cut off his view,the boy glanced furtively at his partner andwas quick to note the man's evidentuneasiness. Mile after mile they mushed insilence. The fragmentary conversation ofthe earlier hours ceased, and eachexperienced a growing sense ofexhaustion. The motionless air hung heavyand dead about them. Its vitality waswanting, so that they were forced tobreathe rapidly and concentrate theirminds upon the simple act of keeping upwith the dogs. Each was conscious of agrowing lethargy that sapped his strength.

Even the dogs were affected, and ploddedmechanically forward with lowered headsand drooping tails.

They were approaching the cavern inwhich Connie had sought refuge from theblizzard. For several miles the boy hadbeen wondering whether Waseche wouldcamp at the cave. He hoped that he would.He was growing terribly sleepy and it wasonly by constant effort that he kept hiseyes open, although they had beenscarcely five hours on the trail. His headfelt strangely light and hollow, and whitespecks danced before his eyes. He closedhis eyes and the specks were red. Theydanced in the darkness, writhing andtwisting like fiery snakes. He opened hiseyes and held doggedly to his place

beside the team. His mind dwelt longinglyupon the soft, warm feel of his sleepingbag. The boy's nerves were tense andstrained, so that his lips and eyelidstwitched spasmodically, with a sting as ofextreme cold.

As they drew nearer the mouth of thecavern he felt that he would scream aloudif Waseche did not halt. His gaze becamefixed upon the broad back of his partner ashe mushed beside his dogs, and he notedthat the man walked with quick, jerkysteps. He wondered vaguely at this, for itwas not Waseche's way. This passingthought vanished, and again his mindreverted to the all-important question:would Waseche camp? He would ask him.He filled his lungs—then, suddenly the

thought flashed through his brain: "I'm apiker! I won't ask him—I'll drop in mytracks first." The deep breath stung hislungs and he coughed—a sharp, dry coughthat rasped his throat. The man turned atthe sound and eyed him sharply.

"Keep yo' mouth shut! An' hurry—hurry!" The man's voice was low andhard, and he, too, coughed.

At the mouth of the cavern the dogsstopped of their own accord and lay downin harness. The boy noted this, and alsothat instead of waiting alert, with cockedears and watchful eyes for a word ofcommand, they lay with their pointedmuzzles pressed close against the hardsnow, as if fearing to move.

Swiftly and silently Waseche began toremove the harness from the dogs andConnie followed his example. As soon asa dog was released, instead of rollingabout and ploughing and rooting his snoutinto the snow, he slunk quickly into thecave. The hitches were cast loose andsleeping bags, robes, grub, and frozen fishfor the dogs were carried into the cavern.Waseche made another trip into thecanyon while the boy sank down upon hisrolled sleeping bag and stared stupidly atthe dogs huddled together in the fartherend of the cave, their eyes gleaminggreenly in the darkness. A quarter of anhour later the man returned with a hugearmful of gnarled, grubby brushwood thathe had hacked from the crevices of therocks. Near the entrance he built a small

fire, filled the coffeepot with snow, andthawed some pemmican in the frying pan.He filled his pipe, threw a handful ofcoffee into the pot, and turned towardConnie. The boy had fallen asleep withhis back against the ice wall. Wasecheshook him gently:

"Wake up, son! Grub pile!" He stirreduneasily and opened his eyes.

"Let me alone," he muttered, sleepily,"I'm not hungry."

"Yo' got to eat. Heah's some hot coffee—jest climb outside of this, an' then yo'c'n sleep long as yo' like."

The hot liquid revived the boy and heate some pemmican and bannock. Having

finished, he spread his robes and unrolledhis sleeping bag. Before turning in,however, he stepped to the door andlooked out. He was surprised that it wasyet daylight and the sun hung just abovethe shoulder of a sharp, naked peak. Againthe white spots danced before his eyes,and he turned quickly:

"Look! Look at the sun!" he cried in asudden panic. "One, two, three, four—look Waseche, I can't count 'em."

"Come away, kid," said the man at hisside, pulling at his sleeve.

"But the suns! Look! Can you countthem?"

"No, kid, we cain't count 'em." The

man's voice was very low.

"But what is the matter? There is onlyone real sun! Where do they come from?"

"I do'no, I do'no. It's—we got to campheah till—" He was interrupted by theboy:

"It's what?" he asked, bewildered.

"It's—I neveh seen it befo'—but I'vehea'd tell—It's the white death. Heah, inthe Lillimuit, an' some otheh places—nawth of the Endicotts, some say. Tonight—the flashin' lights, an' the blood-redaurora—tomorrow, a thousan' suns in thesky. They ain't no wind, an' the air is dead—dead, an' so cold yo' lungs'll crackle an'split if yo'r caught on the trail. We got to

keep out of it, an' then—" His voicetrailed into silence.

"And then what?" asked the boy,drowsily.

"I do'no, I do'no, kid—that depends."

Connie Morgan was awakened by thewhimpering of dogs. In his ears was astrange sound like the hiss of escapingsteam. He wondered, drowsily, how longhe had slept, and lay for some momentstrying to collect his senses. The sounds inthe night terrified him—filled him with anunnamed dread. The strange hissing wasnot continuous, but broken and interruptedby a roaring crackle, like the sound of aburning forest. But there was no forest—only ice and snow, and the glittering peaks

of ranges. With a trembling hand he raisedthe hood of his sleeping bag and peeredcautiously out. To the boy's distortedimagination the whole world seemed onfire. The interior of the cave gloweddimly with a dull red light, while beyondthe entrance the snow flashed brilliantlights of scarlet.

Connie Morgan "stared spellbound atthe terrible splendour of the changing

lights."

"Don't get scairt, son. It's only the

aurora. It's like they said—Carlson, an'one or two mo' I've hea'd talk. The blood-red aurora in the night time, an' thethousan' suns in the day." Waseche'ssleeping bag was close against his own,and the sound of his voice reassured theterrified boy. Together, in silence, theywatched the awful spectacle. Red lights—scarlet, crimson, vermilion flashed uponthe snow, and among the far-off peakswhich stood out distinctly above thefarther wall of the long stretch of canyonthat their viewpoint commanded. Upon thegreen ice at the entrance to the cavern thelights showed violet and purple. The boystared spellbound at the terrible splendourof the changing lights, while above thehiss and crackle of the aurora he couldhear the whimpering and moaning of the

terrified dogs. He shrank back into hissleeping bag, pulling the flap tight to keepout the awful sights and sounds, and layfor hours waiting for something to happen.But nothing did happen and when heawoke again it was day. The dogs hadceased to whine, and Waseche Bill wasmoving about in the cave. The man hadhung a robe over the entrance, but aroundthe edges Connie could see narrow stripsof light. The air was oppressive andheavy. His head ached. The acrid smell ofsmoke permeated the interior of the cavernand Connie wriggled from his sleepingbag and, while Waseche busied himselfwith the coffee and bacon, he broke out abale of fish for the dogs.

"Cut 'em down to half ration, son,"

warned the man, eyeing the scanty supply."We got to get out of this heah Lillimuit—an' we got to get out on what we got withus. I don't reckon they's a livin' critteh inthe whole blame country, 'cept us, an' wegot to go easy on the grub."

"I heard a fox bark the other night,"ventured the boy.

"Yo' won't get fat on fox bahks,"grinned the man, "an' that's all the clost yo'even get to 'em. Outside of white goats,them foxes is about the hah'dest vahmint toget a shot at they is."

"Aren't we going to hit the trail?" askedthe boy in evident surprise, when, afterbreakfast, instead of packing the outfit,Waseche lighted his pipe and stretched out

on a robe.

"Not this day, we ain't," replied theman; "An' me'be not tomorrow—if thewind don't come. Do yo' know how fahwe'd get today?"

"How far?"

"I do'no—a hund'ed steps, me'be—me'be half a mile—'twouldn't be fah."

"Tell me what's the matter, Waseche.What's going to happen? And why haveyou closed up the door?"

"It's the white death," answered theman in an awed tone. "Nothin' won'thappen if we stay inside. I've hea'd itspoke of, only I somehow—I nevehbelieved it befo'. As fo' the robe—hold

yo' breath an' peek out through that crackalong the aidge. Hold yo' breath, mind—don't breathe that air!"

Connie filled his lungs and drew backthe edge of the robe. Instantly his faceseemed seared by the points of a millionred-hot needles. He scarcely noticed thepain, for he was gazing in awestruckwonder where a thousand suns seemeddancing in the cloudless sky. As upon theprevious day, the air was filled withdancing white specks, and the suns glaredwith a glassy, yellow brightness. Theylooked wet and shiny, but their lightseemed no brighter than the light of asingle sun. No blue sky was visible, andthe mountain peaks, even the nearer ones,were nowhere to be seen. The whole

world seemed enveloped in a thick hazeof sickly yellow.

He let go the edge of the robe and drewback from the opening.

"Gee whiz! but it's cold," he exclaimed,rubbing his stinging cheeks. "How cold isit, pardner?" For answer Waseche shiftedhis position, reached swiftly beneath thebottom of the robe, and withdrew from theoutside a small spirit thermometer whichhe held up for the boy's inspection. It wasfrozen solid!

CHAPTER XTHE IGLOO IN THE SNOW

"Now, kid," said Waseche Bill thefollowing morning, "we got to make tracksfo' the Tatonduk. We got too many dogs,an' we got to cut down on the feed. I hateto do it—on the trail—but they's no twoways about it. Three or fo' days ort to putus at the divide. I made a cache the'hcomin' in an' we'll be all right when westrike it."

The two stood in front of the cavern,breathing deeply of the clear, pure air. Astiff breeze was blowing from the south-

west, and the day was warm and pleasant.The sun had not yet risen, and as the dogsswung into the trail Connie glanced at thelittle thermometer lashed firmly to theback of his sled. It registered twentydegrees below zero, an ideal temperaturefor trail travel and the boy cracked hiswhip and yelled aloud in the very joy ofliving.

At the mouth of the canyon theyswerved in a north-westerly direction,toward the northernmost reach of theOgilvie Range. All day they mushedacross the wide caribou barrens and flattundra that separated the great namelessrange behind them from the high mountainsto the westward that lay between them andAlaska. For, upon ascending the Tatonduk,

they had passed out of Alaska into theunmapped Yukon district of sub-arcticCanada. Evening of the second day foundthem among the foothills of the mountains.Patches of stunted timber appeared and thelay of the land forced them to keep to thewinding beds of frozen creeks and rivers.The end of the next day found themcamped on the snow-covered ice of asmall river. Waseche divided the fewremaining fish, threw half of them to thedogs, and sat down beside the boy, whohad prepared a meal of caribou charquiand coffee:

"Seems like this must be the creek—butI ain't sho'. I thought the one we tackledyeste'day was it, too—but it petered outon us."

"I don't know," replied Connie, "Ithought I'd remember the back trail, butsince the big snow everything looksdifferent. And I was in an awful hurry tocatch up with you, besides."

"Sho', kid, I know. I'd ort to took mo'pains myself, but I wasn't so pa'ticlahabout gettin' back—then. Anyways, we'lltry this one. We got to watch the grubnow, fo' sho'. Them malamutes is hongry!Day afteh tomorrow, if we don't find thecache, we'll have to kill a dawg." Connienodded.

"We'll find it, all right. This looks likethe creek. Still, so do they all," he addedreflectively.

The next day was a repetition of the day

preceding. They followed the bed of thecreek to its source in a narrow canyonwhich lost itself upon the steep side of agigantic mountain. Wearily, they retracedtheir steps and once again among thefoothills, turned to the northward.

"They's no dodgin' the truth, son," saidWaseche gloomily, as they mushed on,scrutinizing the mouths of creeks in a vainendeavour to locate a landmark. "We'relost—jest na'chly plumb lost—like acouple of chechakos."

"The divide's somewhere," answeredthe boy, bravely. "We'll find it."

"Yes, it's somewhe'h. But how manythousan' of these creeks, all jest alike, doyo' reckon they is? An' how about grub?"

"I hate to kill a dog," the boy said.

"So do I, but the rest has got to eat. Iknow them wolf-dawgs; onct they getgood an' hongry they'll begin tearin' oneanother up—then they'll lay fo' us—folksis meat, too, yo' know."

Night overtook them on a small woodedplateau and they camped in the shelter of adense thicket of larch and stunted spruce.At the very edge of the thicket was a lowwhite mound, its crown rising some threeor four feet above the surrounding level.The sleds were drawn up at the foot ofthis mound, the dogs unharnessed, and,unslinging his axe, Waseche Bill went tothe thicket for firewood, leaving Connie tounpack the outfit. The boy noted as hespread the robes that the mound was

singularly regular, about twelve feet indiameter at the base and having evenlyrounded sides—entirely different from theirregular ridges and spurs of the foothills.

"You're a funny little foothill," hemurmured, "way off by yourself. You looklonesome. Maybe you're lost, too—in thebig, white Lillimuit."

Waseche returned with the wood andlighted the fire while Connie tossed thelast of the fish to the dogs. Supper wasfinished in silence, the fire replenished,and the two partners lay back on the robesand watched the little red sparks showerupward from among the crackling flames.

"We ain't the first that's camped heah,"remarked Waseche, between noisy puffs at

his pipe. "Yondeh in the thicket is stubswheah fiahwood's be'n chopped—an' oneplace wheah consid'able poles has be'ncut. The axe mawks is weatheh-checked,showin' they was cut green. But it wasn'tdone this yeah—an' me'be not last."

"I wonder who it was? And whatbecame of them? What did they want withpoles?"

"Built a cache, me'be—mout of be'n asled—but mo'n likely a cache. We'llprojec' around a bit in the mo'nin'. Me'bewe c'n find out who they was, an' wheahthey was headin'. Me'be they'll be a trailmap to some cache befo' this or to thedivide."

"I hope we will find a cache. Then we

wouldn't have to kill a dog."

Waseche's brow puckered judicially:

"Yes—we would. Yo' see, son, it's likethis: We got mo' dawgs than is needful fo'a two-man outfit. If we was down to sixdawgs, or even seven, an' one sled, an'they was weak or stahvin, then we couldbust a fish cache—but to feed twenty-onedawgs—that ain't right. Likewise withouah own grub—a man's supposed to takefrom anotheh man's cache jest so much asis needful fo' life; that is, what will gethim to the neahest camp—not an ouncemo'. This is the unwritten law of theNawth. An' a good law. Men's lives isstaked on a cache—an' that's why when,onct in a while, a man's caught robbin' acache—takin' mo'n what's needful fo' life,

they ain't much time wasted. He gets—what's comin' to him."

The dogs had licked up the last crumbsof their scant ration and, burrowing intothe snow, wrapped themselves snugly intheir thick, bushy tails. Old Boris andSlasher dug their beds in the side of themound near where Connie had spread hisrobes. The boy watched them idly as theythrew the hard, dry snow behind them involleys, and long after the other dogs hadcurled up for the night, the sound of oldBoris' claws rasping at the flinty snowcould be heard at the fireside.

"Boris is digging some bed!" exclaimedthe boy, as he glanced toward the tunnelfrom which emerged spurts of sand-likesnow.

"He ain't diggin' no bed," answeredWaseche. "He smells somethin'." Even ashe spoke the snow ceased to fly, andseemingly from the depths of the earth,came the sound of a muffled bark. InstantlySlasher was on his feet growling andsnarling into the tunnel from which thevoice of old Boris could be heard in aperfect bedlam of barking.

"Oh! It's a cave! A cave!" cried Connie,pushing aside the growling wolf-dog."Maybe it's the cache!"

Waseche Bill finished twisting a sprucetwig torch. He shook his head dubiously:

"Come heah, Boris!" he called, sharply,"come out of that!" The old dog appeared,barking joyously over his discovery.

Waseche Bill lighted his torch at the fire,and pushing it before him, wriggled intothe opening. After what, to the waitingboy, seemed an age, the man's headappeared at the entrance, and he pulledhimself clear.

"What is it?" inquired the impatientboy. "What did you find?"

The man regarded him gravely for amoment, and then answered, speakingslowly:

"Waseche Bill attacked the hard-packed snow with his axe."

"It's an igloo, son—an igloo buried inthe snow. An' the'h's a man in the'h."

"A man!" cried the astonished boy.

"Yes, kid—it's Carlson. He's dead."

Tired as they were after a hard day onthe trail, the two partners were unwillingto sleep without first making a thoroughexamination of the buried igloo. Morefirewood was cut, and by the light of theleaping flames Waseche Bill attacked thehard-packed snow with his axe, whileConnie busied himself in removing thecakes and loose snow from theexcavation. At the end of an hour a

squared passageway was completed andthe two entered the igloo.

"He had a plenty grub, anyways,"remarked Waseche, as he cast anappraising eye over the various bags ofprovisions piled upon the snow floor. "Hedidn't stahve, an' it wasn't the red death(smallpox)—I looked pa'tic'lah, fo' I wentout of heah."

Connie glanced at the body which laypartially covered by a pile of robes. Theman's features were calm and composed—one could have fancied him asleep, hadit not been for the marble whiteness of theskin. One by one, they examined all thedead man's effects; the little Yukon stove,half filled with ashes, the bags ofprovisions, his "war-bag"—all were

carefully scrutinized, but not a map—noteven a pencil mark rewarded their search.

"He's met up with Eskimos,somewhe'h," said Waseche, examining arudely shaped copper pan in which a bitof wicking made from frayed canvasprotruded from a quantity of frozenblubber grease.

Finally the two turned to the body. Thecoarse woollen shirt was open at thethroat, and about the man's neck, theynoticed for the first time, was a thincaribou skin thong. Cutting the thongWaseche removed from beneath the shirt aflat pouch of oiled canvas. Connie lightedthe wick in the copper pan and togetherthe two sat upon a robe and, in theguttering flare of the smoky lamp,

carefully unwrapped the canvas cover.The packet contained only a batteredpocket notebook, upon whose worn leavesappeared a few rough sketches and manypenciled words.

"Yo' read it, kid. I ain't no hand to readmuch," said Waseche, handing the book toConnie, and his eyes glowed withadmiration as the boy read glibly from thetattered pages.

"Tu'n to the last page an' wo'k back,"suggested Waseche.

"January tenth—" began Connie. "Why,that was nearly a year ago! He couldn'thave been dead a year!" His eyes restedon the white face of Carlson.

"A yeah, or a hund'ed yeahs—it's all thesame. He's froze solid as stone, an' he'llstay like that till the end of time," repliedthe man, gravely.

"It says," continued the boy, "'Growingweaker. For two days no fire. Too weak.Pain gone, but cannot breathe. To-day'—That's all, it ends there."

"Noomony," laconically remarkedWaseche. The preceding pages weredevoted almost entirely to a record of theprogress of the disease. The first notationwas January third. Under the date ofJanuary fifth he wrote:

"I am afraid my time has come. If so,tell Pete Mateese the claims are staked onIgnatook—mine and his. See map in lining

o f parka. Maybe Pete is dead. He hasbeen gone a year. He tried to go out by theTatonduk. I can't find him. I can't find thedivide. The Lillimuit has got me! Theysaid it would—but the gold! It is here—gold, gold, gold—yellow gold—and it isall mine—mine and Pete Mateese's. Butthe steam! The stillness! The white, frozenforest—and the creeks that don't freeze!After Pete left things came in the night. Itis cold—yet my brain is on fire! I can'tsleep!"

This proved to be the longest entry; theman seemed to grow rapidly weaker.When the boy finished Waseche Billshuddered.

"The Lillimuit got him," he said slowly."He went marihuana." On the next page,

under the date of January sixth, the boyread:

"We'ah lost, kid. It's a cinch wecain't find the divide."

"Made a cache here in timber. Growing

weaker. Tomorrow I will turn back.Mapped the back trail. 2 caches—then theclaims on Ignatook, the creek of thestinking steam. I will go out by theKandik. I mapped that trail. It is shorter,but I must find Pete Mateese. I must tellhim—the claims."

"Who is Pete Mateese? And where isIgnatook?" inquired the boy.

"Sea'ch me!" exclaimed Waseche. "Iain't neveh hea'd tell of eitheh one, an' Ibe'n in Alaska goin' on fo'teen yeah."

For an hour they studied Carlson's map,which they found as he had directed,concealed in the lining of his parka.Finally Waseche Bill looked up:

"We'ah lost, kid. It's a cinch we cain'tfind the divide if Carlson couldn't—heknow'd the country. The thing fo' us to dois to follow Carlson's map to his camp, an'then on out by the Kandik. Neah's I c'nmake out, it means about three or fo'hund'ed miles of trail—but we got totackle it. Tomorrow we'll rest an' hunt upthe cache—Carlson's past needin' it now.We sho' got hea'h jest in time!"

CHAPTER XION THE DEAD MAN'S LONELY

TRAIL

Connie Morgan pushed aside the flap ofhis sleeping bag and blinked sleepily intothe blue-gray Arctic dawn. Far to thenorth-west, the thin rays of the belatedwinter sun pinked the edges of the icegod's chiselled peaks where the greatwhite range guarded grimly the secrets ofthe man-feared Lillimuit.

The boy closed his eyes and pressed hisface close against the warm fleece. Was itall a dream, he wondered vaguely—the

crashing wall of the canyon—the trail ofthe white death—the blazing aurora—thesearch for the Tatonduk pass—the buriedigloo, and the man who died? Were thesethings real? Or, was he still following thetrail of Waseche Bill, with the unknownLillimuit before him, and the men of Eaglebehind?

Again his eyes opened and he chuckledaloud as he thought of the man called Joe,and Fiddle Face, and big Jim Sontag, andthe others in the hotel at Eagle. It was nota dream. There, by the fire, was Waseche,the coffeepot was boiling with a lowbubbly sound, and beyond was the round-topped igloo, its white side scarred by thesled-blocked entrance to the tunnel.

"What's so funny?" grinned Waseche as,

frying pan in hand, he turned at the soundof the boy's laughter. "This heah mess weah into ain't no joke, fah's I c'n see.Whateveh yo' laughin' at, anyhow?"

The boy wriggled from his sleeping bagand joined the man by the fireside, wherethe preparation of breakfast was wellunder way.

"Oh, nothing—I was just wonderingwhat they thought, next morning—the menback in Eagle, who wouldn't let me cometo you."

"Me'be it w'd be'n betteh if yo' hadn'tof," answered the man, with a glancetoward the towering snow peaks.

"Well, it wouldn't!" flashed the boy;

"and, you bet, it would take more than justsaying so to hold me back! You knowyou're glad I came—Anyway, I did come,and I'd rather be lost here, with you, thanown the best claim on Ten Bow, and go italone. You and I are going to beat theLillimuit, pardner, and even Carlsoncouldn't do that!"

"No, he couldn't," agreed the man,eyeing the boy proudly. "An' theh's plentyothehs, too, that's tried it. Some come back—but, mostly, they didn't. Carlson, in theh—he was a man—he died huntin' up hispahdneh. I wondeh how much of a strikethey made oveh on this heah Ignatook?"

"It must be something big. The notebooksaid there was lots and lots of gold——"

"Yeh—an' it said they was creeks thatdon't freeze—an' frozen fohests—an'things that come in the night—an' steam.Yo' see, kid, Carlson was too long alone.It's boun' to get a man—the big, whitecountry is—if he stays too long from hiskind. It gets 'em with its flashin', hissin'lights, an' the roah of shiftin' ice—but,most of all, with its silence—the dead,awful stillness of the land of frozen things.It gets 'em in heah"—he pointedsignificantly to his forehead. "Somethin'goes wrong, sometimes all of a sudden—sometimes gradual—but, it's all the same—they might betteh died.

"But, come on, let's eat, an' then hunt upCarlson's cache. I sho' hope he was alltheah when he made that map, 'cause, if he

wasn't, yo' an' me is in fo' a hahd winteh.Rampsin' th'ough the Lillimuit followin' acrazy man's map ain't no Sunday schoolpicnic—not what yo' c'n notice—an' whenwe-all come to the end of the trail, we'llknow we be'n somewheahs."

The cache was easily located near thecentre of the thicket. It was a rude crotchand pole affair, elevated beyond reach ofprowling animals. A couple of blowsfrom Waseche's axe brought the structurecrashing into the snow, and theyproceeded to cut the lashings of thecaribou skins that served as tarpaulins.

"Theah's meat a plenty wheah he comefrom. Look at them quahte's of caribou, an'the hides."

"He didn't need to go to so much troublewith his cache. There is nothing here tobother it."

"How about the foxes—an' wolves,too? Wheah theah's caribou theah'swolves. An' how about his dawgs?"

"That's so!" exclaimed Connie. "Iwonder what became of the dogs? Andwhere is his sled?"

"Sled's undeh the snow, somewheahs—dawgs, too, me'be—'less they pulled out.It's owin' to what kind they was.Malamutes would of tu'ned wolf, an'when they found they couldn't bust thecache, they'd of hit out fo' the caribouheahd. Hudson Bays an' Mackenzie Rivehdawgs w'd done sim'lah, only they'd

stahved to death tryin' it. An' mongrels,they'd of jest humped up an' died wheahthey happen' to be standin'."

In addition to several saddles ofcaribou venison, the cache containedcoffee, flour, salt, a small bottle ofsaccharin, and three bags of fish for thedogs. Bound securely to the coffee bagwas a rough map of the trail to thepreceding cache, which Carlson hadnumbered 2, and they lost no time incomparing it with the notebook whichConnie produced from his pocket.

"He wasn't plumb loco, anyhow,"remarked Waseche, with a deep breath ofrelief. "His maps checks up all right, an' acrazy man couldn't make two maps hit outthe same to save him, I don't reckon.

Anyhow, I'm glad we found this otheh one.Neah's I c'n make out, it's three days to thenext cache, an' me'be the'll be anothehmap to check up with."

The remainder of the forenoon wasspent in packing the supplies to the camp,and at noon the two made a prodigiousdinner of fresh caribou venison, thawedout and broiled over the smokeless larchcoals.

"The dawgs is ga'nted up someconsid'ble, s'pose we jest feed twicttoday. They be'n on half ration since we-all left the canyon. 'Tain't good policy tofeed malamutes twict, an' if we don't hit itout right to the next cache, we'll wisht wehadn't, but, somehow, findin' that last mapkind of clinched it with me. Whad'yo say,

pahdneh?"

Connie glanced at the brutes lying aboutin the snow apparently uninterested in thesaddles of venison and bags of fish pilednear the camp fire. Only Mutt, the hugemongrel "wheel dog" of Connie's ownteam, whimpered and sniffed at the newlyfound food, for Mutt lacked the stoicism ofthe native dogs of the North, who knewthat feed time was hours away. The boyregarded them with judicious eye andpondered his partner's propositiongravely.

"Well, we might try it, just this once.They do look a little gaunt and ribby," andthe boy smiled broadly as he broke out abag of fish; for the same thought had beenin his own mind for an hour and he had

been just on the point of broaching it toWaseche, at the risk of being thought achicken-hearted chechako.

Connie returned to the fire as the dogsgnawed and snarled at their unexpectedmeal. There was plenty of coffee, now,and while the boy tossed the grounds ontothe snow and refilled the pot, WasecheBill whittled a pipe of tobacco, andstretched lazily upon his robe in thewarmth of the crackling flames.

"We-all must bury him decent," hebegan, with a nod toward the igloo, asthey sipped at the black coffee. "An' wemust remembeh that name, Pete Mateese,the man he was huntin' fo'. If he's alive,he'd like to know. He was his pa'dneh, Ireckon. Seems like, from what the book

says, he neveh know'd about the strike."The man's eyes roved for a moment overthe distant peaks, and he continued: "It'stoo bad we cain't dig no reg'lar grave fo'him, but it would take a good week tothaw out the ground, an' them fish ain'tgoin' to hold out only to the next cache.But I know anotheh way that's good, heah.The rock wall yondeh shades the igloo soit won't neveh melt; leastwise, it ain't aptto. Las' summeh's sun neveh fazed it 'ceptto sog it down all the mo' solid. We'll givehim a coffin of ice, an' his igloo fo' a tombof snow. I'd a heap sooneh have it that-a-way than like them ol' king of Egyp's,that's buried in the stone pyramids out onthe aidge of the desert, somewheahs. Iseen one, onct, in the dime museum inChicago. Ferry O'Tolliveh, his name was,

I recollect, an' the man that run the placegive a consid'able lecture about him.Seems like he was embalmed, they call it,which means he was spiced an' allwrapped up in, I think he said it was amile an' three-quahtehs of bandages,anyhow, they was a raft of 'em, 'cause Icounted mo'n a hund'ed layehs of clothwheah they'd cut th'ough to get to his face.Which it must of be'n a heap of wo'kwithout they put him in a lathe; anyways,theah he was, afteh bein' dead mo'n twothousan' yeahs!

"The man said how the embalmin' ofthem ol' Egyp' undehtakehs is a lost aht,an' I reckon, afteh takin' a look at Mr.Ferry O'Tolliveh, fo'ks is glad it is. Helooked like the bottom row of a kit of

herring. The man said his mummy wastheah, too, but I didn't stop fo' to look ather—I seen all I wanted of theO'Tollivehs from lookin' at Ferry, but himbein' the only king I eveh seen, I'm glad Idone it, even if he hadn't kep' well.

"Now, with Carlson, heah, it will bediffe'nt. He'll be jest the same twothousan' yeahs from now as he is today,an' was the day he died. Ice is ice, an' if itdon't melt it'll stay ice till the crack ofdoom."

The two set about the work with a will.The provisions were carried outside, thedead man's effects ranged about the baseof the circular wall, and his robes spreadin the centre of the igloo upon the hard-packed floor of snow. The body was

wrapped in its blankets and laid upon therobes, and Connie Morgan and WasecheBill gazed for the last time upon the faceof Carlson, the intrepid man of the Northwho, like hundreds of others, lured by thecall of gold, braved the unknown terrorsof the silent land to pass for ever from thehaunts of man. There was that in thestrong, clean-cut features of the beardedface to make them pause. Here was a man!A man who, in the very strength and forceof him, pushed beyond the barriers, defiedthe frozen desert, and from her ice-lockedbosom tore the secret of the great whitewilderness; and then, in the bigness of hisheart, turned his back upon the goal of hisheart's desire and faced death calmly invain search for his absent partner.

"The boy's lips moved in prayer, theonly one he had ever learned."

Instinctively, the small boy removed hiscap and dropped to his knees beside thedead man, and opposite him, awkwardly,reverently, with bared head, kneltWaseche Bill. The boy's lips moved and

in the cold, dead gloom of the snow igloo,his voice rang high and thin in the wordsof the only prayer he had ever learned:

"Now I lay me down tosleep,

I pray the Lord my soulto keep.

If I should die before Iwake,

I pray the Lord my soulto take.

"Amen."

"Amen," repeated Waseche Billhuskily, and together they left the igloo.

Blocks were cut from the surface of thehard crusted snow and packed closelyabout the body. Snow was melted at the

fire and the blocks soaked with water,which froze almost instantly, cementingthe whole into a solid mass of opaque ice.In the same manner, the igloo was sealed,and the body of Carlson was protectedboth from the fangs of prowling beasts andthe ravages of time. From the trunk of ayoung spruce, Waseche Bill fashioned arude cross, into which Connie burneddeep the name:

SVEN CARLSONDIED JAN. 10-19—.

The cross was planted firmly and,having completed the task to theirsatisfaction, the two ate supper in silenceand sought their sleeping bags.

Dogs were harnessed next morning by

the little light of the stars, and long beforethe first faint streak of the late winterdawn greyed the north-east, the outfitswung onto the trail—the year-old trail ofCarlson, the man who found gold.

Before passing from sight around apoint of the spruce thicket, they halted thesleds for a last look at the solitary igloo.There, in the shifting glow of the palingaurora, the little cross stood out sharp andblack against its unending background ofdead white snow, and below it showedthe rounded outline of the low mound thatwas the fitting sepulchre of this man of theNorth.

CHAPTER XIIIN THE HEART OF THE SILENT

LAND

Waseche Bill and his little partnerfollowed blindly the directions uponCarlson's map, which led them acrosssnow as trackless and unscarred as theday it fell.

"Fr. C 3 N 3d. to FLAT MT. C 2 onrock-ledge at flagpole," read thedirections on the map found in the cache,which was the exact reverse of thedirections in the notebook which read:"Fr. FLAT MT. C 2. S 3d. to C 3. in

spruce grove at igloo." The man hadcarefully mapped his trail as heproceeded, and then reversed the notes forthe benefit of any chance backtrailer.

So far, the trail of Carlson was but aprojection of their own trail in search ofthe Tatonduk divide, and for two days theymushed steadily northward, skirting thegreat range that lay to the westward. Tothe north-east and east, as far as the eyecould reach, stretched vast level snowbarrens, and to the southward rolled thelow-lying foothills toward the glacier-studded range which was still visible, itsjagged peaks flashing blue-white in thedistance. Hour after hour they threaded inand out among the foothills, avoiding thedeeper ravines, and with tail rope and gee

pole working the outfit across coulees.

Toward evening of the third day, bothConnie and Waseche scanned the rangeeagerly for a glimpse of the flat mountain,but the early winter darkness settled aboutthem without the sight of a mountain thatcould, by any stretch of imagination, becalled "flat."

"Prob'ly we-all ah mushin' sloweh thanwhat he done," ventured Waseche, as hepeered into the gloom from the top of arounded hill. "I hate to camp, an' I hate tomush on an' pass the landmahk in the dahk.It's mo' or less guesswo'k, followin' a coldtrail. Landmahks change some, an' even ifthey don't, the time of yeah makes adiffe'nce, an' then, things looks diffe'nt toone man from what they look to anotheh.

Likewise, things looks diffe'nt nights, thandaytimes. Of co'se, a flat mountaincouldn't hahdly look like nothin' else but aflat mountain nohow, but yo' cain't tell——"

"I'm sure we haven't passed it,"interrupted the boy.

"No, we ain't passed it. What'spestehin' me is, did Carlson knowwhetheh he mushed three days or ten? An'whetheh he c'd tell a flat mountain from apeaked one? I've saw fog hang so thateveh' mountain yo' seen looked flat—cutright squah acrost in the middle."

"Let's mush on for a couple of hours.There is light enough to see the mountains,and we might as well be lost one place as

another." The man grinned at thephilosophical suggestion.

"All right, kid. Keep yo' eyes peeled,an' when yo' get enough jest yelp an' we 'llcamp."

Hour after hour they pushed northwardamong the little hills. The sled runnersslipped smoothly over the hard, dry snow,and overhead a million stars glittered incold brilliance against the blue-black pallof the night sky. And in all the vastsolitude of the great white world the onlyliving things were the fur-clad man andboy and the shaggy-coated dogs that drewthe sleds steadily northward. Gradually itgrew lighter and the stars paled before theincreasing glow of the aurora. Broadbanners flashed and waned in the heavens,

and thin streamers of changing lightswrithed and twisted sinuously,illuminating the drear landscape with adull, uncanny light in which objectsappeared strangely distorted and unreal.

Was it possible that other eyes hadlooked upon these cold, dead mountains?That other feet had trodden the snows ofthis forsaken world-waste? It seemed tothe tired boy that they had passed theuttermost reach of men, and gazed for thefirst time upon a new and lifeless land.

They eased out of a ravine on a longslant, and at the top Connie haltedMcDougall's malamutes and waited forWaseche Bill, whose sled had nosed deepinto the soft snow of a huge drift. The manwrenched it free and urged on his dogs,

which humped to the pull and clawed theirway to the top, sending little showers offlinty snow rustling into the ravine. As theboy started the big ten-team, the light grewsuddenly brighter. The whole Northseemed bathed in a weird, greenish glow.Directly before him a broad bannerflashed and blazed, and in the bright flareof light, upon the very edge of the vastfrozen plain, loomed a great whitemountain whose top seemed sheared by asingle stroke of a giant sword! The boy'sheart leaped with joy.

"The flat mountain! It's here! It's here!"he cried, and up over the rim of the ravinerushed Waseche Bill, and in silence theygazed upon the welcome sight until thelight disappeared in a final blaze of glory

—and it was night.

Cache number two was easily locatedupon a shelf of rock before which a wind-whipped piece of cloth fluttereddejectedly at the top of a sapling firmlyembedded in the snow. In spite of theincreased confidence in Carlson's map, itwas not without some trepidation that thepartners set out the following day upon thesecond lap of the dead man's lonely trail.

"Fr. FLAT MT. C 2. DUE E 4d C 1STONE CAIRN RT. BANK FORK OFRIV. FOL. RIV. N-E." were the directionsupon the trail map pinned with a sliver toa caribou haunch. It had been well enoughto skirt the great mountain range beyondwhich, to the westward, lay Alaska. It wasquite another thing, however, to turn their

backs upon this range and strike due eastacross the vast snow-covered plain whichstretched, far as the eye could reach, aslevel as the surface of a frozen sea. Forfour days they must mush eastward acrossthis white expanse, without so much as ahill or a thicket to guide—must hold, bycompass alone, a course so true that itwould bring them, at the end of four days,to a certain solitary rock cairn at the forkof an unnamed river. Even the hardenedol d tillicum, Waseche Bill, hesitated asthe dogs stood harnessed, awaiting theword of command, and glancedquestioningly into the upturned face of thesmall boy:

"It's a long shot, son, what do yo' say?"His answer was the thin whine of the

boy's long-lashed dog whip that ended in avicious crack at the ears of McDougall'sleaders:

"Mush-u, mush-u, hi!" and the boywhirled the long ten-team away from themountains, straight into the heart of theLillimuit.

The crust of the snow that lay deep overthe frozen muskeg and tundra was idealfor sled-travel and, of course, renderedunnecessary the use of snowshoes. All daylong the steel-blue, cold fog hung in thenorth, obliterating the line of the flathorizon. The bitter wind that whipped andtore out of the Arctic died down atnightfall and, for the first time in theirlives, the two felt the awful depression ofthe real Arctic silence. Mountain men,

these, used to the mighty uproar of frost-tortured nature. The silence they knewwas punctuated by the long crash of snowcornices as they tore loose from mountaincrags and plunged into deep valleys to theroar of a riven forest; by the sudden boomof exploding trees; and the wild bellowingof lake ice, split from shore to woodedshore in the mighty grip of the frost king.

But here, on the frozen muskeg, was nosound—only the dead, unearthly silencethat pressed upon them like an all-pervading thing. Closer and closer itpressed, until their lungs breathed, not air— b ut silence—the dreaded, surchargedsilence of the void—the uncanny silencethat has caused strong men to leap,screaming and shrieking, upon it and,

bare-handed, seek to wring its awfulsecrets from its heart—and then to fallback upon the snow and maunder andlaugh at the blood stains where the claw-like nails have bitten deep into their palms—but they feel no pain and gloat foolishly—for to their poor, tortured brains thisblood is the heart's blood of the Silence ofthe North.

On the fourth day the ground roseslightly from the low level of the muskeg.All day they traversed long, low hills—which were not hills at all, but the roll ofthe barren ground, and in the evening cameupon the bank of the river, but whetherabove or below the fork they could nottell.

"We'll follow it down—nawthwahd—

fo' that's what the map says, an' if we domiss the cache, we'll strike the Ignatookcamp in two mo' days. We got grubenough if a stawm don't hit us. I sho' amglad we-all didn't get catched out yondeh."The man's eyes swept the wide expanse ofbarrens that lay between them and thedistant peaks. "It's a good hund'ed an' fiftymile acrost them flats—we sho' waslucky!"

The ice-locked river upon which theyfound themselves was a stream ofconsiderable size which flowed north,with a decided trend to the eastward. Themuskeg and tundra had given place to therocky formation of the barren lands whichcropped out upon the banks of the river inrock reefs and ledges. Scrub trees and

bushes in sickly patches fringed the banks,their leafless branches rattling in the wind.

An hour's travel on the snow-coveredice of the river brought them to a sharpbend where a river flowed in from theeastward, and there, almost at theconfluence of the two streams, stood thesolitary rock cairn, a monument someseven feet in height and five feet indiameter at its base.

"He didn't cache no great sight of meatheah," observed Waseche as, one by one,they removed the stones of the cairn. "Wegot a plenty, but I counted on this fo' thedawgs." Even as he spoke, they came upona flat stone midway of the pile, whichrequired their combined strength todisplace. With a harsh, grating sound it

slid sidewise into the snow, disclosing aconsiderable cavity, in the centre of whichlay, not the expected cache of cariboumeat, but a human skull, whose fleshlessjaws grinned into their startled faces insardonic mockery. Beside the skull lay aleaf torn from Carlson's notebook, and inCarlson's handwriting the words:

FOL. RIV. 2d N to CREEK OFSTEAM. FOL. UP CREEK 2m.CAMP W BANK IN OLD MINETUNNEL. DISCOVERY 100ft. E.TUNNEL MOUTH. 1 ABOVECLAIM—STAKED FOR PETEMATEESE. LOOK OUT FORWHITE INJUNS.

"Ol' mine tunnel! White Injuns!"

exclaimed Waseche. "I tell yo' what, son:so fah, Carlson's maps has hit out, butwhen he begins writin' about white Injunsan' ol' mine tunnels, an' cachin' skullbones, 'stead of meat! It's jest as I tol' yo'!We-all got to keep on now, but I sho'wisht we'd neveh found Carlson an' hiscrazy maps."

"Whose skull do you suppose it is? Andwhy did he cache it, I wonder?" askedConnie, as he handled gingerly thegruesome object.

"Seahch me!" said the man, glancing atthe weather blackened skull. "Come on,le's mush."

As they advanced the surface of thesurrounding land became more broken and

the river descended rapidly in a series offalls, enclosed by the freezing spray, inhuge irregular masses of green-hued ice,which impeded their progress and taxed tothe utmost the skill of the drivers and thetricks of the trail-wise dogs in preventingthe sleds from being dashed to piecesupon the slope of the ice domes, fromwhose hollow interiors came the muffledroar of the plunging falls.

The dogs were again on half ration, andeven this was a serious drain upon thesupply of meat. The walls of the riverbecame higher until, on the second day,they were threading a veritable canyon. Atnoon the light dimmed suddenly, and thetwo gazed in surprise at the sun whichglowed with a sickly, vapoury glare,

while all about them the air was filledwith tiny glittering frost flakes, which laythick and fluffy under their feet andcollected in diamond flashing clusters onthe rocks and bushes of the canyon walls.

"It's snowing!" cried Connie, excitedly."Snowing at forty below!"

"'Tain't snow, son. It's frozen fog, an' Icain't sense it. I c'n see how it might thickup an' snow, even at forty below, but fog!Doggone it! It takes wahm weatheh tomake fog—an' it ain't wahm!"

Toggling the lead dogs, they selected aspot where the wall of the canyon wasriven by the deep gash of a small feederand climbed laboriously to the top for abetter view of the puzzling phenomenon.

Scarcely a quarter of a mile ahead agreat bank of fog ascended, rolling andtwisting toward the heavens. Slowly itrose from out of the snow, spreading intothe motionless air like a giant mushroomof glittering diamond points which dancedmerrily earthward, converting the wholelandscape into a mystic tinsel world. Farto the westward the bank extended,winding and twisting like some greatliving monster.

"It's the creek of the steam!" criedWaseche Bill. "It's theah wheah Carlson'scamp is." But, so entranced was the boywith the weird beauty of the scene, that hescarcely heard. He pointed excitedlytoward a low hill whose sides werewooded with the scrub timber of the

country, where each stunted tree, eachlimb and spiney leaf curved gracefullyunder its weight of flashing rime. Towers,battlements, and spires glinted in thebrilliant splendour, for, out of the directline of the fog bank that hung above thecourse of the narrow creek, the sun shoneas clear and bright as the low-hung wintersun of the sub-Arctic ever does shine, andits slanting rays flashed sharply from abillion tiny facets.

"It's the frozen forest that he wroteabout!" exclaimed the delighted boy. "It'sthe most beautiful thing in the world!Now, aren't you glad you came?" ButWaseche Bill shook his head dubiously,and began the descent to the canyon.

"Why! Where are the dogs!" cried the

boy, who was first upon the surface of theriver. Waseche hurried to his side; sureenough, neither dogs nor sleds were insight and the man leaped forward toexamine the thick carpet of rime.

"The two partners stared open-mouthed at the apparition. The face was

white!"

"It's Injuns!" he announced. "Nine or tenof 'em, an' they headed nawth!" And, evenas he spoke, a grotesquely feathered,beaver-topped head appeared above afrost-coated rock, almost at his elbow,and the two partners stared open-mouthedat the apparition. The face was white!

CHAPTER XIIIO'BRIEN

Surprise held Connie Morgan andWaseche Bill spellbound as they stoodankle-deep in the glittering frost spiculesthat carpeted the surface of the ice-lockedriver, and gazed speechless into the facethat stared at them over the top of therime-crusted rock.

The spell broke. From behind otherrocks appeared other faces surmounted byodd beaver-skin caps, edged with thefeathers of the blue, and snow goose, andof the great white Arctic owl. The

partners glanced from one to the other ofthese strange, silent faces that regardedthem through wide-set, in-slanting eyes.The faces were white—or rather, throughthe winter's accumulation of grease andblubber soot, they showed a lightbrownish yellow that, in comparison withthe faces of other Indians, would easilypass for white. And they were so nearlyalike that a stranger would have been athis wits' end to have distinguished onefrom another—all except the first one, theman whose face appeared so suddenlyalmost at Waseche Bill's side. He wastaller than the others, his nose longer andthinner, and his whole lower face wasconcealed behind a luxurious growth offlaming red whiskers, while through thesoot and grease his skin showed ruddy,

rather than yellow, and his small, deep-seteyes were of a peculiar greenish hue.

"Japs an' Irish!" exclaimed WasecheBill. "Carlson was right—even to hisfrozen fohest an' white Injuns!"

He addressed the company with acomprehensive wave of his arm:

"Good evenin', gents. How theycomin'?"

His words were greeted with stony-faced stares as meaningless and void ofexpression as the stare of a frozen fish.Waseche tried again:

"It's a right smaht spell o' weathehwe're havin', ain't it? An' how's all thefolks? Don't all talk to onct, now, till I get

through welcomin' yo' into me an' the kid'smidst—oah else tellin' yo' how glad we-all ah to find ouhselves amongst yo'—owin' to who's givin' the pahty." Heglanced from face to face, but, as before,all were stolid as graven images.Suddenly he turned upon the bewhiskeredone of the green eyes:

"Hey, yo' red chinchilly! Cain't yo' talknone? An' cain't yo' yelleh perils, heah,ondehstand no language? I cain't talk nolaundry, myself, but besides American, I'msome fluent in Chinook, Metlakat', Tlinkit,an' Athapascan. As fo' yo', yo' look to melike the Tipperary section of a Patrick'sDay parade! Come on, now—loosen up! Ifyo' an' Injun, so'm I—only I've donemoulted my feathehs, an' washed my face

since the Fo'th of July!"

Directly addressed, the man steppedfrom behind his rock, and the lid of the leftgreen eye dropped in a decided wink. Theothers immediately followed, crowdingclose about the newcomers. Squat, full-bodied men, they were, fur-clad from topto toe, and all armed with short, copper-tipped harpoons which they leaned uponas they stared. Waseche grinned into theirwide, flat faces, as he of the red whiskerselbowed to the fore and spoke in asingsong voice with a decided Hibernianaccent:

"Which me name's O'Brien," he began,"an' ut's both sorry an' glad Oi am to seeye. But, phwere's th' shtampede?" Heglanced anxiously up the river.

"What stampede?" asked Waseche, insurprise.

"Phy, th' shtampede! Th' shtampede toth' Ignatook, th' creek yondher—th' creekthat biles."

"Sea'ch me! Me an' the kid's all theah is—an' yo' wouldn't hahdly call us astampede."

"But, Car-rlson! An' th' breed, PeteMateese! Didn't they nayther wan gitt'rough? Ilse, how'd ye come to be follyin'th' back thrail?" The man's anxietyincreased, and he waited impatiently foran answer.

"No. Carlson didn't get through. Wecome onto his last camp about ten days

back. He died huntin' the Tatonduk divide.But, how come yo'-all to be heah? Who'syo' friends? An' wheah's ouh outfit?"

"Hivin hilp th' bunch av us!" wailed theIrishman. "No shtampede, afther all—an'we'll all be dead befoor we live to git outav this!" The man gazed far out into thegathering gloom, wringing his hands andmuttering to himself. Suddenly his eyeslighted, and he questioned the twoeagerly:

"D'yez know about Flor-ridy?" heasked, "phwere they say a man kin bewar-rum? An' how man-ny quar-rts avnuggits w'd ut take f'r th' car-r-fare, an' tobuy, me'be ut's a bit av a tobaccy shtor-reon th' sunny soide av th' shtrate, wid a bitav a gar-rdin behint, an' a pig in his pin in

th' yar-rud?

"An', shpykin' av tobaccy, hav' yez a bitto shpare? Ut's niver a shmoke Oi've hadin goin' on six year—an' kin ye lind me th'loan av a match?"

Waseche tossed the man his tobaccoand eyed him sharply as he lighted theshort, black cutty pipe that he producedfrom a pocket of his thick caribou-hideshirt.

"They've took th' outfit to th' village,"O'Brien said. "But, about Flor-ridy, now——"

"We'll talk that oveh lateh. Let's bemushin', I don't want them sleds too fah inth' lead."

"Sur-re, they'll not be far-r. 'Tis ondlyar-round th' bind av th' r-river." He spokea few harsh, guttural syllables to one ofthe fur-clad men, who wore across hisshoulders the skin of a beautiful black fox.

"'Tis a foine language, ain't ut? An' tothink Oi've hur-rd no other f'r six yearspast!"

"What do yo' call it?" asked Waseche,as they followed in the wake of thenatives, who had started northward at theIrishman's words.

"Call ut! How sh'uld Oi know? Oi c'dbe ar-rested in an-ny town in Oirland f'rphwat Oi've called ut! But, Oi've got usedto ut, now—same as th' raw fish, an'blubber. How man-ny cans av nuggits did

ye say? Wan quar-rt tomatty cans, wid arid label, haypin' full—an' is ut raylly hotin Flor-ridy, or ondly middlin' war-rum,loike Kildare in th' summer?"

"Florida's hot," ventured Connie. "Ilearned about it in school. And there'soranges, and alligators that eat you whenyou go in swimming."

"Shwimmin'! Sur-re, Oi ain't binshwimmin' in, Oi don't know phwin. Phy,Oi ain't seen me hide in six years!"

They proceeded a short distance, withO'Brien muttering and chuckling in therear, and upon rounding a sharp bend,came in sight of the village, a group ofsome fifteen or twenty snow igloos,situated upon a plateau or terrace

overlooking the river. In front of an igloosomewhat larger than the others, stood thedog-teams with their loaded sledssurrounded by a crowd of figures thatdiffered in no single particular from thedozen or so who mushed along inadvance. Old Boris, Mutt, and Slasher, thethree unharnessed dogs that hadaccompanied Connie and Waseche to thetop of the high plateau from which theyhad obtained the view of the creek of thesteam and the white forest, now trottedclose to the heels of the boy.

"I don't quite like the looks of things,kid," whispered Waseche, as theyapproached the trail that slanted upwardto the village. "O'Brien's touched a littlein his uppeh stohy, but he may be smaht

enough in some things. He ain't wild-eyed,an' me'be he'll be all right now. I reckonhe's jest be'n thinkin' of them wahmcountries till he's a bit off. We got to keepouh eyes peeled an' get out of this heah fixthe best way we can. Me'be the Irishman'llhelp, an' me'be he'll hindeh. These heahJap-faced Injuns don't appeah to be muchhostyle, an' we betteh lay low an' get thehang of things fo' a couple of days befo'we go makin' any break."

"We'll take him with us," said Connie."Just think of a white man living up herefor six years!"

"We sho' will!" agreed Waseche. "Ihope them heathens ain't cleaned outCarlson's camp. Raw fish an' blubberdon't sound good to me—theah's some

things a man don't want to get use' to.Heah we ah; we got to hold ouh nehve, an'keep ouh eyes open."

"How man-ny cans av nuggits did yesay?" interrupted O'Brien, as he overtookthem at the rise of the trail. "They'reheavy."

"Why, they're all men!" exclaimedConnie, as they reached the spot where theentire village stood grouped about thesleds.

"Indade, an' they ain't!" refuted O'Brien."They's fifty-seven av um all towld,incloodin' mesilf, an' th' half av us iswimmin—ondly ye can't tell th' differencenayther in looks nor-r dhress. An' ahomlier-r, mor-re ill-favour-red crew

niver wuz let be born, bein', near-r as Oikin figger, half Injun, half Eskimo, an' halfChinee—an' they'll ate an-nything they kinchaw!"

At the approach of the white men, theIndians drew back, forming a wide circleabout the dog-teams. Into this circlestepped a very old man, who leanedheavily upon the shaft of his harpoon andblinked his watery, red-rimmed eyes.From the corners of his mouth long tufts ofwhite hair grew downward until theyextended below the angle of his jaw.These tufts, stiff with grease, gleamedwhitely like the ivory tusks of a walrus.With a palsied arm he motioned toO'Brien, who stepped before him andspoke rapidly for several moments in the

guttural jargon he had used on the river.The old man answered and, as he talked,his tongue clicked oddly against his teeth,which were worn to the level of his gums.

"What ails grandpa?" asked Waseche,when the old man had finished. "Was hesayin' somethin,' oah jest exehcisin' hismouth?"

"Sur-re, that's Metlutak, the owldchayfe; he's give over his job mostly toAnnunduk, yondher, wid th' black foxshawl, but on mathers av impoortance th'owld wan has his say."

"I didn't get the drift of his ahgument—Ineveh leahnt no blue jay."

"He says," began O'Brien, with a broad

grin, "he says ye're welcome into thethribe. He'll set th' young min buildin' anigloo, an' he's glad ye've got so man-nydogs f'r 'tis two moons befoor th' cariboumove, an' th' fresh mayte will tasht goodafther a winther av fish an' blubber."

"With a palsied arm he motioned toO'Brien, who stepped before him."

"Meat!" exclaimed Connie, withflashing eyes. "Does he think he's going toeat those dogs?"

"Ye don't see no dogs in th' village, doyez? An' nayther they ain't bin excipt th'six they shtole off Car-rlson an' PeteMateese—an' they was into th' bilin' potbefoor they quit kickin'."

"Well, you can tell him he don't get anyof these dogs to eat! And if any one lays ahand on a dog, I'll—I'll knock his blockoff!"

"Now, hold on, son," cautionedWaseche Bill, with his hand upon the

boy's shoulder. "We got to kind of take iteasy. This heah ain't no time fo' an uprisin'of the whites—the odds ain't right." Heturned to the Irishman:

"O'Brien, yo' want to get out of thisheah country, don't yo'?"

"Sur-re, an' Oi do!" eagerly exclaimedthe man. "But, ut's six years Oi've throiedut, an' nar-ry a wanst hav' Oi done ut. Avye kin make ut, Oi'm wid yez—but, av wedon't save th' dogs, we'll niver do ut.They're good thrailers, th' punkin facedejits, an' they've br-rung me back twinty-wan toimes, be th' clock. Car-rlson an'Pete Mateese had dogs, an' they gotaway."

"We-all can make it! Don't yo' worry

none. I be'n in tight fixes befo'. Jest yo'listen to me, an' stall the ol' boy off fo' aday oah two. That'll give us a chanst tomake medicine." O'Brien turned to the oldwalrus-faced shaman and there followed ahalf-hour of lively conversation, at the endof which the man reported to Waseche:

"They're gr-reat hands f'r to hav'dances, ut's par-rt av their haythen religion—that is, they call um dances, an' ut shtar-rts in that way—but ut woinds up loike aDonnybrook fair. 'Tis gr-rand fun—widhar-rpoon shafts cr-rackin' down on headsloike quarther-staves; f'r barrin' pickhandles, wan av thim har-rpoons is th'besht club, nixt to a black thor-rn shelala,f'r a foight amongst frinds, an-ny day in th'wake.

"Oi towld um th' dogs wuz skin-poor fr-rom th' long thrail, an' not fit f'r to ate, buta couple av days wid plinty av fish intheir bellies, would fat um up loike ayoung seal.

"'We'll have a big potlatch,' says he.'We've more fish thin we nayde. Feed upth' dogs,' says he, 'an' in two shlapes, we'llhav' th' biggest potlatch in th' histhry av th'thribe. We'll dance all night, f'r Oi'mgittin' owld,' says he, 'an' ut may be melasht.' Oi hope so, thinks Oi, but Oi don'tsay so. An-nyhow, we kin resht airy f'r acouple av days an' th' dogs'll be safe an'well fed. 'Twud be all a man's loife wuzwor-rth to har-rm wan till th' owld mangives th' wor-rd. Ye said ut wuz raylly hotin Flor-ridy, b'y? Hot enough, d'ye think,

that a felly c'd set ar-round in his shir'rtshlaves, an' shmoke a bit av an avenin'?"

O'Brien offered to share his igloo withConnie and Waseche Bill, but theydeclined with thanks after one look intothe smoky interior that fairly reeked withthe stench of rancid blubber and raw skinbedding.

Hardly had the dogs been unharnessedbefore four Indians appeared with hugearmfuls of frozen fish, and while the gauntmalamutes gnawed ravenously at thefood, the whole village looked on, menand women licking their chops inanticipation of the coming potlatch,pointing out the choicest of the dogs, andgesticulating and jabbering over thedivision of the spoils.

The light shelter tent, robes, andsleeping bags were removed from thesleds, and O'Brien offered to help.

"Set ut up clost ag'in' th' igloo," he said,"an' Oi'll tunnel a hole t'rough th' soide,an' tonight we kin lay an' plot loikeFenians, an' th' ar-risthocracy here'll thinkwe're sound ashlape dhreamin' avmalamute mulligan, an' dog's liver fried inile."

The tent was quickly set up and Conniewas about to loosen the lashings of thegrub pack.

"How much grub hav' ye got?" askedthe Irishman.

"We got a right smaht of grub, except fo'

th' dawgs," answered Waseche.

"Don't uncover ut, thin," warnedO'Brien. "Jist tilt yer tarp a bit an' pull outenough f'r th' suppher. They won't bother-rth' outfit none—th' owld man towld um tolave hands off an' they'd divide the wholeshebang afther th' dance."

"Yo' don't say," drawled Waseche."Grandpa's a generous heahted ol' pahty,ain't he! D'yo' reckon we-all w'd be in onth' divvy, oah do we jest furnish theoutfit?"

O'Brien grinned:

"Ye'd fare same as th' rist," he said."Sharre an' shar-re aloike is th' rule here.Sur-re, they're socialists—ondly they don't

know ut."

"Yo' say they won't let yo' get awayfrom heah? What do they want of yo'—an'what do they want of us? Afteh they've etthe dawgs an' divided the outfit, looks likethey'd be glad to get rid of us."

O'Brien filled his pipe and noisily blewgreat clouds of smoke into the air:

"'Tis a thing Oi've niver found out. Sixyears Oi've bin hilt pr-risoner. They'vethrayted me same as theirsilves. Oi do nomor-re wor-rk thin an-ny man av thim, an'av they're glutted wid grub so'm Oi, an' avthey're hungr-ry, Oi'm hungr-ry, too. Near-r as Oi kin make out Oi'm jist a kapesake—loike ye're grandfayther's swor-rd, or acanary."

"How did Carlson an' Pete Mateese getaway?"

"Sur-re, they niver wuz caught! Theygot to the Ignatook; that's phwat thesehaythen call th' creek av th' bilin' wather—an' they fear-r ut. Niver a man av thimwill go into ut's valley. They say ut'sdivil-ha'nted. Th' wather's black an'bilin'—an' ut stinks. Ut's pizen, too; av yedhrink ut ye'll die. They's a pile av bones,an' man-ny a skull ar-round th' owldcopper mine. 'Twuz wan av thim Oishlipped into th' rock cairn, back yondher,hopin' to warn th' fur-rst av th' shtampedeto wait f'r th' rist, phwin th' Injuns robbedth' cache.

"Av we kin git to th' Ignatook wid th'dogs, we're safe. Oi've hid there a dozen

toimes, but Oi niver c'd make th' outsidef'r lack av dogs. They's sixteen hunder'pounds av caribou mate in th' tunnel, an'sixty percers av fish.

"They've an eye on us, an' Oi'm fear-redthey'll misthrust we're plottin'. Wait tilltonight, an' Oi'll go now an' make up afairy shtor-ry that'll satisfy th' owld chayfeabout our long palaver-r."

O'Brien started toward the old shaman,but turned and retraced his steps:

"How man-ny quar-rts av nuggits did yesay?" he asked, as a far-away look creptinto his eyes. Waseche Bill answeredsoftly:

"I don't rightly know what nuggets is

fetchin' a quaht. But, offhand, I'd say aquaht oah two w'd be a plenty to take yo'clean around the wohld."

CHAPTER XIVTHE ESCAPE FROM THE WHITE

INDIANS

The man, O'Brien, despite the fact thathe spent half his time mooning andmuttering to himself about quarts of goldand the delights of a torrid clime, provedhimself no mean strategist, and hisintimate knowledge of the lay of the landand the habits and language of the natives,was invaluable in formulating the plan ofescape.

Far into the night the three lay, Connieand Waseche Bill in their sleeping bags

under the little shelter tent pitched closeagainst the rounded side of the igloo, andO'Brien lying inside the igloo upon hisvile-smelling bed of skins with his face tothe hole he had bored low in the snowwall.

Their only hope in getting out of theLillimuit lay in saving the dogs, and it wasdecided that this could be accomplishedonly by a quick dash for the Ignatook,which joined the larger river a quarter ofa mile to the northward.

On the sleds remained about fivehundred pounds of caribou venison,besides a small quantity of tea, coffee,bacon, and flour.

"Ut's loike this," concluded O'Brien,

when the situation had been carefullyreviewed from every slant and angle,"Oi'll go to owld Metlutak, tomorry, an'Oi'll say: 'Chayfe,' Oi'll say, 'thim dogs isa plinty soight ribbier thin phwat Oithought they wuz. We can't git no fat ontoum insoide av a wake or tin days but wekin hav' th' potlatch jist th' same—ondlywe'll hav' two potlatchs instead av th'wan. They is foive hunder' pounds avcaribou mate on th' sleds an' we'll hav' th'car ibou potlatch fur-rust, an' th' dogpotlatch lather, phwin they've bin give achanst to lay on some fat.'

"Th' owld b'y won't loike th' caribou somuch as th' dog but Oi'll pint out to um thatav we use th' caribou fur-rust th' dogs can'tshlip along in th' noight an' ate it up on us,

whoilst av we kill th' dogs an' lave th'caribou, ye can't tell phwat w'd happin."

"But the dogs couldn't eat the meat ifthey were dead!" objected Connie.

"Whisht lad! Th' chayfe don't know no'rithmetic. Two potlatches is bether thinwan, an' beyant that he ain't goin' to study.

"We'll wor-rk ut loike this: they's abouttin pound av mate apiece—no gr-reat glut—but enough to kape um busy afther th'dance. Th' dance'll begin phwin th' sun jistedges yondher peaks, an' wanst they git hetto the wor-rk, 'twill kape up till mid-noight. We'll dhrag th' mate over, an' Bill,here, he'll shtand ridy wid his axe to cut utin chunks, an' Oi'll toss ut to wan an'another so they'll all git a piece. They'll

ghrab ut an' dhrive their har-rpoons into utso they kin howld ut over th' foir-re an'thaw ut out. They'll ate ut raw off th' indav th' har-rpoons—'tis a gr-rand soight!

"Now, her-re's phwere th' b'y comes in:as soon as Bill shtar-rts choppin' mate, yemust shlip over here an' har-rness th' dogsf'r all ye're worth. Ye must finish befoorth' mate's all doled out. Hav' th' loightgrub an' th' robes an' shlapin' bags on th'sleds, but lave th' tint shtand. Lave th'roifles in th' pack; they've niver kilt me,an' Oi won't see har-rm come to thim—butav Oi c'd git a good cr-rack at wan or twowid me fisht, 'tw'd aise th' mimry av thim,twinty-wan toimes they've dhrug me backover th' tundra.

"Wanst their har-rpoons gits dhrove

into th' fr-rozen mate, they'll niver git umout till they're thawed out. They'll be tooheavy to run wid, an' be th' toime they kinfr-ree thim, we'll be safe on th' Ignatook,phwere they wudn't come afther us av theydoied fur-rst.

"We kin take our own toime gittin' to th'outsoide. They's plinty av grub in th'tunnel—an' plinty av gold, too—all putaway in tomatty cans; an' they're heavy—foorty pound apiece they weigh, av theyweigh an ounce—an' that's wan raysonthey've tur-med me back thim twinty-wantoimes.

"How far-r did ye say ut wuz to Flor-ridy, afther ye cr-ross th' muskeg?"

"I reckon it's quite a spell, O'Brien,"

answered Waseche. "But yo' c'n bet yo'last blue one, me an' th' kid'll see yo' gittheah—an' don't yo' fo'get it!"

Darkness—not the black darkness of theStates, but the long twilight of the earlyArctic night—descended upon theLillimuit. Upon the narrow plateauoverlooking the unnamed river, squat fur-clad figures emerged from the tunnel-likeentrances of the igloos and, harpoon inhand, moved slowly through the gloomtoward a circular level of hard-packedsnow immediately in front of the house ofthe chief, where other figures were busilyheaping brushwood and frozen pieces ofdrift upon a fire that smoked andsmouldered in the centre of the area.

At the edge of the circle, Waseche Bill,

Connie Morgan, and O'Brien sat upon thehaunches of venison and watched thestrange men and women take their placesabout the fire where they rangedthemselves in two circles, one within theother, and waited in stolid silence for theappearance of the two chiefs.

Presently they approached, carryingqueer shaped drums which consisted of anarrow frame or hoop of split willowabout two feet in diameter. Upon theseframes were stretched the thin, toughmembranes that form the abdominal liningof the seal. A handle of carved walrusivory was affixed to the hoop withlashings of sealskin. The chiefs carried noharpoons, and as each took his place, theold chief in the inner circle, and the young

chief in the outer, they raised their drumsand struck sharply upon the edges of therims with their short ivory drumsticks.The sound produced was a resonant,rather musical note, and at the signal thecircles moved, the inner from right to left,the outer from left to right. Slowly, at first,they moved to the measured beat of thedrums. The scene was weird andimpressive, with the strange, silent peoplecircling in the firelight whose red flarenow and then illumined their flat grease-glistening faces. The drums beat faster andbetween the beats could be heard the huskof the mukluks as they scraped upon thehard surface of the snow.

Gloom deepened into darkness and stillthey danced. Suddenly out of the north

flashed a broad band of light—mysticillusive light writhing and twisting—nowbright—now dim. Rose flashed intoamethyst and vivid scarlet into purple andpale yellow colouring the whole whiteworld with its reflected light.

Instantly the scene changed. Faster andfaster beat the drums; faster and fastercircled the dancers, and suddenly fromevery throat burst the strange words of aweird, unearthly chant:

"Kioya ke, Kioya ke,A, yaña, yaña, ya,Hwi, hwi, hwi, hwi!>

Tudlimana, tudlimana,A, yaña, yaña, ya,Hwi, hwi, hwi, hwi!

Kalutaña, Kalutaña,A, yaña, yaña, ya,Hwi, hwi, hwi, hwi!"

Eerie and impressive the sight, andeerie the rise and fall of the chant withwhich the children of the frozen wastesgreet the Aurora—the flashing, hissingwarning of the great Tuaña, the bad man,who lies dead at the end of the earth.

The words ceased, the drums struckinto a measured, monotonous, pom, pom,pom, and the dancers continued to circleabout the fire. A man separated himselffrom the others and, stepping into the fire-lit circle, began to chant of his deeds ofvalour in the hunt, of his endurance on the

trail, and his fortitude in accident andfamine. As he chanted he danced, swayingand contorting his body, and then, eitherhis tale was told, or he became weary anddropped back into the circle and gaveplace to another. Hour after hour the whitemen watched the strange incantations,moving about at intervals to keep warm.The endurance of the natives was a sourceof wonder to Connie and Waseche Bill.They had been continuously at it for ninehours, and it was midnight when O'Brienreached swiftly over and touched Connieupon the shoulder.

"Look aloive, now, b'y! The owldchayfe is th-radin' his dhrum f'r a har-rpoon, an 'tis th' sign f'r th' potlatch!"

Sure enough! With amazing suddenness

the circles broke up and the dancers madea concerted rush for the caribou meat.Connie slipped unnoticed into theshadows and ran for the sleds, whileWaseche Bill swung his ax and O'Briendistributed the chunks to the crowdingIndians.

As soon as one received his portion heplaced it upon the snow and drove hisharpoon in past the barbs to prevent itsbeing jerked off in the wild scramble for aplace at the fire. As O'Brien had said, theorgy that started as a religious ceremonywas winding up like a Donnybrook fair,for the natives fought and pummelled eachother with spear and fist in their efforts tothaw out their meat.

At the end of half an hour all were

served and not a shred remained that wasnot firmly transfixed upon the point of aharpoon. Most of the Indians still foughtby the fire, but some of the more fortunatehad retreated to a distance and weregnawing and tearing at the raw chunks,using the harpoons in the manner of a hugefork.

"Now's our chanst!" whisperedO'Brien; and with an eye upon those whowere eating, they dodged swiftly behindthe chief's igloo.

When Connie reached the shelter tent hefell immediately to work harnessing thedogs which he roused from their snug bedsin a huge snowdrift. At first his fingerstrembled with excitement so that hefumbled clumsily at the straps, but he soon

regained his nerve and, one after another,t he malamutes were fastened into theirproper places. He slipped the collar on toMcDougall's gaunt leader and waited,tense with anxiety, listening and peeringinto the darkness for sound or sight of histwo companions.

After what seemed hours of suspense,he saw them approaching at a run, andsprang to his place, his fingers grippingtightly the handle of his dog whip.

At the same instant, the boy becameaware that the scene at the fireside hadchanged. In the uncertain light of theflaring flames he had been able to makeout an indistinct blur of fighting figuresaccompanied by a jumble of growls andshort, animal-like yelps, as the natives

pushed and pummelled each other for aplace by the coveted fire. As the figures ofWaseche and O'Brien drew closer, theyelps and growls gave place to loud cries,the fighting ceased, and in the dim lightConnie made out other running figures,and still others standing upon their chunksof meat and wrenching frantically to freetheir harpoons.

The next instant Waseche Bill leaped tohis dogs and O'Brien threw himself uponConnie's waiting sled.

"Let 'em go, kid!" cried Waseche, andthe sharp crack of the dog whips rang onthe air to the cries of: "Mush! Hi! Hi!Mush-u! Mush-u!"

Both teams shot away toward the

inclined trail of the river. Neck and neck,they ran over the crusted snow, while thethree free dogs romped and raced besidethem.

While most of the Indians followeddirectly in the wake of the retreating men,a few of the wiser ones cut straight for thehead of the trail down which the outfitmust pass. Waseche's eight malamutes,travelling lighter than Connie's big ten-team, forged to the front and gained theincline at the same moment that threeIndians led by Annunduk, the young chief,leaped out upon the trail. The natives,tired by their long exertions at the dance,had thrown away their weighted harpoonsand, except for a short club that Annundukhad snatched from a cache frame as he

ran, were unarmed.

Waseche dodged a blow from the cluband an Indian who tried to throw himselfupon the flying sled was hurled from thetrail and rolled end over end down thesteep hundred-foot slope to the river.

A quarter of a minute later McDougall'sb i g malamutes swung into the trail andwould have dashed past the spot beforethe Indians could have collected theirsenses, had not O'Brien, with Irishimpetuosity, leaned far over the side andaimed a mighty blow of his fist at the headof Annunduk. The blow swung wide andO'Brien, losing his balance, pitchedheadlong into the snow almost at theIndian's feet.

Connie, whose attention was upon therushing dogs, felt the sled leap forward asthe man's weight was removed, andwithout an instant's hesitation halted thedogs in their tracks and, clutching his dogwhip, ran to the assistance of O'Brien,who was clawing and rolling about in thesnow in a vain effort to regain his feet.

There was not a second to lose. By thelight of the stars the boy saw Annundukleap forward with club upraised, whilethe remaining Indian was making ready tospring upon the defenceless man frombehind. Connie redoubled his efforts and,just as the chief raised his club for a longshoulder swing at O'Brien's head, theboy's fifteen-foot gut lash sang through thethin air. There was a report like a pistol-

shot and, with a loud yell of pain,Annunduk dropped his club and clutchedfrantically at his face.

"The boy's fifteen-foot lash sangthrough the thin air."

Meanwhile the other Indian had almost

reached the Irishman who had scrambledto his hands and knees. Connie leapedbackward to get the range of his longwhiplash, but before the boy could drawback his arm, the air roared with a long,throaty growl and Slasher, the savagewolf-dog, with back-curled lips andflashing fangs, leaped past and launchedhimself full at the throat of the Indian.With awful impact, the great tawny brutelanded squarely upon the man's chest,carrying him backward into the snow. Thenext instant the air was filled withfrightened shrieks and ferocious, full-mouthed snarls as the wolf-dog tore andwrenched at the heavy skin shirt, while theterrified Indian protected his face with hisarms.

The whole incident occupied scarcely aminute, and Connie half-dragged the dazedO'Brien to his feet and hurried him to thesled. With a loud whistle to Slasher, theboy cracked his whip above the ears ofthe leader and, just as the head of the trailbecame black with pursuing Indians, themalamutes shot away, with Slasherrunning beside them, growling fiercelyand shaking a great patch of quill-embroidered shirt front which waved fromhis tight-clamped jaws.

Down on the river, Waseche Bill wasin the act of swinging his dogs for a dashover the back trail when the long ten-teamrushed out onto the rime-carpeted ice. Alldanger from pursuit was past, and theyjogged the teams slowly northward, while

all about them fell the frost spicules in afeathery shimmer of tinsel. Ten minuteslater O'Brien pointed out the trail whichpassed between two enormous rocks andentered the valley of the Ignatook, thecreek of the stinking steam, into which theIndians dared not venture. And it was witha grateful sense of security and relief thatthey headed the dogs for the spot wherethey were to camp, in the old tunnel of thelost mine of the Ignatook—at the end ofthe dead man's lonely trail.

CHAPTER XVO'BRIEN'S CANS OF GOLD

When Connie Morgan and WasecheBill awoke, the morning after theirmidnight escape from the village of thestrange Indians, they found O'Brien busilyengaged in the preparation of breakfast.

The tunnel of the ancient mine, that hadbeen the abode of Carlson and PeteMateese, was merely a rude entry whichfollowed the slant of an outcropping massof native copper. The entry wasapproximately five feet high and six feetwide, and led obliquely into the face of a

rock-cliff for a distance of a hundred feetwhere it widened into a chamber, orroom, perhaps twenty feet in diameter andseven or eight feet in height. Three wallsof the room were formed by the copperore which showed plainly the marks of theprimitive tools of the forgotten miners.The fourth wall was of solid rock—thewall of the fissure that contained the veinof ore. At the angle formed by the roof andthe rock wall, a wide crack, or cleavagecleft, slanted sharply upward and outwardto a point on the face of the rock-cliff highabove the mouth of the tunnel, and thusformed a natural chimney for the rudefireplace that had been built directlybeneath it.

The odour of boiling coffee was in the

air and by the fireplace squatted O'Brien,prodding tentatively at the caribou steaksthat sizzled noisily in the long-handledfrying pan. Upon a flat stone that hadevidently served for a table, an ancientlamp which consisted of a rudelyhammered copper pan containing blubbergrease and a bit of moss wicking, flaredits smoky illumination.

"Good marnin' to yez," greeted theIrishman, as the two partners slipped fromtheir sleeping bags and drew up close tothe fire. "Sure, bhreakfasht'll be riddy inwan minit—an' a good job ut is, to besettin' wanst mor-re amongst Christians,an' aytin' whoite man's grub, inshtead avsuckin' a shtrip av blubber, along av th'flat-faced Injuns, yondher."

Connie laughed:

"Yes, but you nearly spilled the beanswhen you tumbled off the sled."

"Ahroo! Dar-rlint! Ut's a gr-rand lad year-re! Ye shud av seen um!" he cried,turning to Waseche Bill. "Oi wanted to gitjist th' wan swoipe f'r um to remimber meby, but Oi mished um fair an' square, an'over Oi wint loike a frog off a log in abog. An' jist phwin Annunduk wuz aboutto presint his soide av th' case wid a bitav a club th' heft av a pick handle, crack!goes th' b'y's whiplash fair in th' face avum, an' phwin th' other goes to jump on meback, Whirra! They's a roar loike th' Zootur-rned loose f'r recess, an' th' wolf-dog'sa-top av um, fang an' claw! Ye shud avseen ut! 'Twuz a gr-rand soight!"

Waseche smiled proudly as he listenedto the Irishman's account of the accidenton the trail.

"Yo' say, they won't follow us in heah?"he asked.

"Niver a wan av thim. They think thisvalley is th' counthry av th' evil spirits.We're safe now—an' hooray, f'r Flor-ridy,an' th' land av sunshine!"

"We-all ain't out of the woods yet. I'msho' glad to be shet of them Injuns, though.How many times did yo' say they'd brungyo' back?"

"Twinty-wan toimes. But, Oi hadn't nodogs—an' thim two tomatty cans isheavy!"

"Where are the cans?" asked Connie,who had only half believed the Irishman'stale of gold.

"Set by now an' ate, an' Oi'll show yethim—the two av moine, an' th' twilve avCar-rlson's an' Pete Mateese's."

The meal over, O'Brien loosened acleverly concealed wedge that held inplace a stone which served as a door to asmall compartment, about eighteen inchessquare and three feet deep, that had beenchiselled into the copper on a level withthe floor.

"'Tis th' safe," he grinned. "Foire proof,an' bhurglar proof, too, av ye don't knowth' combynation, fer wid th' little wedge inplace, th' more ye pryze on th' rock th'

toighter ut shticks."

Pushing the stone aside, the manreached into the interior and, one at atime, removed fourteen tin cans, which hecarefully deposited upon the floor. Overthe top of each, serving as a cover, andconcealing the contents from view, wasbound a piece of caribou skin, smoke-dried, with the hair on.

Connie reached for a can, but to hissurprise it remained motionless as ifnailed to the floor. It seemed incredible tothe boy that such great weight could beencompassed within so small a space, andit was only at the expense of considerableeffort that he succeeded in raising it to hislap. Cutting the thongs, he removed thecover and there, showing yellow and dull

in the guttering flare of the blubber lamp,was gold! O'Brien spread an empty pack-sack and the boy poured the contents of thecan upon it, and with his fingers levelledthe golden pyramid. Before him laynuggets, flat, dark flakes of "float," andbright yellow grains of "dust"—hand-shovelled, and hand-sluiced from the hot,wet sands of the Ignatook. Waseche Billstared speechless at the row of skin-covered cans, at the pile of yellow metal,and back to the row of cans. For years thisman had toiled and mucked among theplacers of the gold fields, had sunk deepshafts, and shallow; had tunnelled, anddrifted, and sloshed about in ice-coldmuddy creek beds, but in all the years oftoil and hardship and peril, he had nevergazed upon a sight like this. Even Ten

Bow, with its rich drift sands, was abarren desert in comparison with this ElDorado of the frozen waste.

"Nine thousan' dollahs a can—mebbeten," he estimated, in an awed voice. "Nowondeh Carlson came back!" He turned toO'Brien:

"How deep was his shafts?"

"Shafts!" exclaimed the Irishman, "sure,they ain't no shafts! Ye dam off a puddleav wather phwer uts shallow an' throw ina chunk av oice to cool ut, an' thin yewade in an' shovel ut into ye're sluices."

"An' wateh the yeah around!" criedWaseche.

"Aye, an' no dumps to wor-rk out in th'

shpring—ye clane up as ye go. Wanshovel is good f'r a can, or a can an' a halfa month."

The idea of a man measuring his dust bythe forty-pound can, instead of by theounce, was new, and Waseche Billlaughed—a short, nervous laugh ofexcitement.

"Come on! Shove them cans back in thehole an' le's go stake ouh claims. Yo' donestoke yo'n, ain't yo', O'Brien?"

"Oi've shtaked nawthin'! Oi jistscooped ut out here an' there, phwere theirclaims wasn't. Oi want none av thiscounthry! Oi've had enough av ut as ut is!Oi won't shtay wan minit longer thin Oi'vegot to—not av Oi c'n shovel out pure gold

be th' scoopful! Oi want to be war-rmwanst more, an' live loike a civiloizedChristian shud live, wid a pig an' a cow,an' a bit av a gar-rden.

"Ye'll not be thinkin' av shtayin' here?"he asked anxiously.

"No, O'Brien," answered Waseche, "notthis trip. But we ah goin' to stake ouhclaims an' then, lateh, why me an' th' kidheah—we ah comin' back!"

"Come back av ye want to," saidO'Brien with a shrug. "But luk out ye don'tcome back wanst too often. Phwere's Car-rlson, an' Pete Mateese? Thim's min thatcome back! An' wait till ye see th' skullsan' the bones along th' gravel at th' edge avth' wather—thim wuz min, too, wanst—

they come back. An' luk at me! Four av uscome in be way av Peel River—an' threeav us is dead—an' many's th' toime Oi'vewisht Oi wuz wan av thim." O'Brienreplaced the stone, and the three turnedtheir attention to their surroundings. Oneside of the room was piled to the ceilingwith the caribou venison and fish of whichO'Brien had spoken. They also found asled and a complete set of harness for asix-dog team—Carlson's six dogs that hadfound their way into the boiling pots of theWhite Indians. Scattered about the stonefloor lay numerous curiously shaped stoneand copper implements, evidently themining tools of a primitive race of people,and among these Connie also foundancient weapons of ivory and bone.

Slowly they made their way toward theentrance, pausing now and then to examinethe rough walls of the tunnel which hadbeen laboriously driven through the massof copper ore.

"Wonder who worked this mine?"speculated Connie. "Just think of menworking for years and years, I s'pose, todig out copper—with all that gold lyingfree in the gravel."

"Yeh, son, seems queeah to us. Butwhen yo' come to think of it, coppeh'swo'th a heap mo'n gold, when it comesdown to usin' it fo' hammehs, an' ha'poons,an' dishes. Gold ain't no real good, nohow—'cept fo' what it'll buy. An' if they ain'tno place to spend it, a man mout a heapsight betteh dig out coppeh."

The sun was shining brightly on thesnow when the three finally stood at thetunnel-mouth and gazed out into the valleyof the Ignatook. A light wind carried thesteam and frozen fog particles toward theopposite bank, whose high cliffs appearedfrom time to time as islands in a billowywhite sea. Almost at their feet the watersof the creek wound between banks ofglittering snow crystals, and above themthe great bank of frozen mist eddied androlled. The stakes Carlson had driven tomark his claim, and that of Pete Mateese,were plainly visible, and upon the blackgravel at the water's edge were strewn theweather-darkened bones of many men.

"The copper miners!" cried Connie,pointing toward the grewsome collection.

Waseche nodded.

"I reckon so," he answered. "I wondehwhat ailed 'em."

"Aye, what!" echoed O'Brien. "Whatbut th' Ignatook—that's shpelt death toiverywan that's come into uts valley. Th'whole Lillimuit's a land av dead min. Avut ain't th' wan thing, uts another. Phwere'sCar-rlson, an' Pete Mateese? Av ye don'tdhrink th' pizen wather, ye'll freeze, ershtar-rve, er ye'll go loike Craik an'Greenhow, that come in with me—an'that's th' wor-rst av all. Craik, glum an'sombre, follyin' day an' noight th' thrail ava monster white moose, that no wan ilsec'd iver see, an' that always led into th'Narth. An' Greenhow, yellin' an' laughin'loike foorty fiends, rushin' shtraight into

th' mid-noight aurora—an 'nayther comeback!

"Ye'd besht moind phwat Oi'm tellin'yez," he croaked, as he sat upon the bankand watched Waseche and Connie stakeadjoining claims.

"Ut's th' same in th' ind," he continued,letting his glance rove over the tragicrelics of a bygone race. "Some comes f'rcopper, an' some f'r gold—an' phwere's th'good av ut? Th' metal is left—but th'bones av th' diggers mark th' thrail f'r th'nixt that comes! An' none goes back!"

"We're going back!" said Connie. "Youdon't know, maybe Pete Mateese gotthrough."

"Mebbe he did—but ut's mebbier hedidn't," despaired the man.

"Now, look a heah, O'Brien," cut inWaseche, "yo' be'n up heah so long yo'plumb doleful an' sad-minded. We-all ahgoin' to get out of heah, like the kid donetold yo'. Come on along now an' stake outyo' claim 'long side of ou'n. I've mined, it'sgoin' on fo'teen yeah, now—an' I nevehseen no pay streak like this heah—noteven Nome, with her third beach line; theKlondike, with its shallow gravel; oahTen Bow, with its deep yellah sand. It's nowondeh yo' expected a stampede."

But the Irishman was obdurate and,despite all persuasion, flatly refused tostake a claim.

"Come on, then," said Waseche. "We-all got to locate that map of Carlson's. Hesaid how he mapped the trail to theKandik."

"Sure, an' he did!" exclaimed O'Brien."Oi found th' map six months agone. Butivery toime Oi'd thry to folly ut, thimdanged haythins ud dhrag me back."

"Where is the map? Le's see it," saidWaseche. O'Brien stared from one to theother of his companions, with a foolish,round-eyed stare. Suddenly he leaped tohis feet and without a word dashed downthe creek in the direction of the river,leaving Waseche and Connie to gaze afterhim in astonishment.

"Where's he going?" asked the boy.

"Sea'ch me!" exclaimed Waseche;"come on—we got to catch him. Me'behe's took a spell. Po' fellow, I'd hate fo'anything to happen to him now."

O'Brien had obtained a veryconsiderable lead when the others startedand, giving no heed to their cries to halt,he lumbered heavily onward. Connie andWaseche ceased to call and, saving theirbreath, dashed after him as fast as theirlegs could carry them. The Irishman wasin good muscle and wind, thanks to his lifein the open, but in neither speed norendurance was he a match for hispursuers, who were iron-hard from thelong snow trail. When O'Brien neared thepass that gave out onto the river, the twopartners redoubled their efforts and,

although they gained perceptibly, O'Brienwas still ten yards in advance when heplunged between the two upstanding rocksthat Connie had named the "gate-posts ofthe Ignatook."

"As they passed between the pillaredrocks the Indians broke cover, hurlingtheir copper-tipped harpoons as they

ran."

Without a moment's hesitation, the boy,who had outdistanced Waseche, dashed

after him and with a "flying tackle"tripped the fleeing man, so that both rolledover and over upon the rime-covered iceof the river. And Waseche Bill, burstingupon the scene, saw, approaching silentlyand swiftly among the rocks and scrub ofthe river's edge, shadowy, fur-clad forms.The White Indians were guarding well theegress from the creek of the frozen steam.

Hastening to the two struggling figures,Waseche jerked them to their feet, andbefore the surprised O'Brien knew whatwas happening, he was beingunceremoniously hustled into the narrowvalley from which he had just emerged—and none too soon, for as they passedbetween the pillared rocks, the Indiansbroke cover and rushed boldly upon them,

hurling their copper-tipped harpoons asthey ran.

CHAPTER XVIFIGHTING THE NORTH

"Wheheveh was yo' aimin' fo' to go to?"interrogated Waseche, when they wereonce more safely seated about thefireplace in the room at the end of the oldmine tunnel.

"Sure, ut's th' map!" answered O'Brien,in a tone of the deepest dejection.

"The map! What about it?"

"Ut's in me other pants!" wailed theIrishman. "Back in th' igloo!"

"The igloo! The igloo—back there?"

"That same," nodded O'Brien,shamefacedly dropping his glance beforethe wrathful glare of Waseche's eyes. "Yesee, ut's loike this: two years ago, Oi brukaway fr' th' haythins an' made th' Ignatook.Car-rlson an' Pete Mateese wuz here thin,an' Oi shtayed wid um f'r a month, untilwan day Oi wuz fishin' in th' river, an'they shwooped down an' caught me befoorOi c'd git back into th' valley. Afther thatthey watched me clost, an' befoor Oi c'dgit away ag'in Car-rlson an' Pete Mateesewuz gone. 'Twuz thin Oi found his map,pegged to a caribou haunch on top av th'pile yondher, an' Oi shtayed here an' wor-rked till Oi'd all th' gold Oi c'd pack, an'thin Oi shtar-rted f'r th' Kandik. They

caught me, av coorse, bekaze th' heft avthim cans, along wid phwat grub Oi wuzdhraggin' on th' sled, wuz more thin a wanman load. They're sooperstitious about th'creek, an' th' gold, too, an' they slung th'cans back into th' valley.

"That's two toimes Oi got away, an'since that they ain't watched me so clost,f'r they've lur-rned that widout dogs, Oican't make ut to th' outside—an' BeJabbers! nointeen toimes since, Oi've beendhrug back, but Oi always kep' th' map f'rfear that sometoime Oi'd git to use ut—an'now, phwin we've got th' chanst, Oi'vegone an' murdhered us all be layvin' utbehint—an' all on account av th' dance an'th' potlatch, be rayson av which Oi wintan' changed me britches!"

The man's grief was so genuine, and hisdejection so deep that the wrathful gleamfaded from Waseche Bill's eyes, andConnie moved nearer and placed his handupon the Irishman's shoulder.

"Never mind, O'Brien. You didn't meanto leave the map—we know that—don'twe, Waseche?"

"Sho', he didn't," answered the man,gloomily. "But that don't help the case any.How we-all ah goin' to get out of heah,now, is mo'n I know——"

"Me nayther," assented O'Brien. "AvOi'd shtayed in Kildare, Oi w'dn't be herenow. We bether go back an' settle downwid th' Injuns—av we c'n make friendswid um ag'in, befoor they har-rpoon us—

f'r Oi'll niver see Flor-ridy, now!"

Connie leaped to his feet and stoodbefore the two men, who looked into thenarrowing grey eyes that flashed in theflickering flare of the blubber lamp.

"You make me tired!" cried Connie."Anybody'd think you needed a city,with the streets all numbered, to find

your way around."

"You make me tired!" cried the boy,"both of you—with your talk of not gettingout of the Lillimuit; and of going back tothe Indians! Why, they'd eat up our dogs,and then we couldn't get out! What's gotinto you, Waseche? Buck up! Anybody'dthink you needed a city, with the streets allnumbered, to find your way around!

"Carlson came in by the Tatonduk—andhe went out by the Kandik—his first trip,when he showed the nuggets he broughtback. Who made Carlson's map? He was asourdough—but he has nothing on us! He

found his own way out—and so will we!If we miss the Kandik, we'll find a pass ofour own—or a river—or a creek! We'renot afraid of the Lillimuit. It hasn't got usyet! And it isn't going to! We've got thedogs, and we've got the grub—and we'vegot the nerve to back them. We'll hike tothe outside on our own trail—and we'llturn around and come back after the gold!

"But, if we don't make it—and have todie out there in the White Country—whenthey find us, they'll know men died! We'llbe, anyway, one day's mushing ahead ofour last camp fire!"

Waseche leaped to the boy's side andgrasped the small, doubled fist.

"They sho' will, kid!" he cried. "They

sho' will! But they ain't a goin' to find usbushed! I wisht yo' daddy c'd of heahd yo'then—He was some man, Sam Mo'ganwas, an' he'd sho' be proudful of his boy!

"I'm plumb 'shamed, pahdneh, fo' togloomed up on yo' that-a-way—ain't we,O'Brien?"

"We ar-re, that!" shouted the Irishman,with a new light in his eyes. "Ye're a gr-rand lad, wid a hear-rt, in ye're ribs, that'sth' heart av a foightin' man. F'r all ye'resmall soize, ye're th' gamest wan av th'three av us. An' uts Pathrick O'Brien'llfolly ye to th' top av' th' narth pole, av yesay th' wor-rd."

A week was spent in exploring thevalley of the Ignatook and in prospect

panning at different points along themysterious boiling creek whose hot, blackgravel showed an unbelievably rich paystreak.

O'Brien improved rapidly from day today. The despairing, furtive look fadedfrom his eyes, which glowed with a newhope and a new-born determination to doa man's part in the accomplishment of apurpose. His wild dash for the rivershowed the utter futility of attempting torecover Carlson's map, for the loss ofwhich he blamed himself bitterly.Nevertheless, the words of the boy putnew heart into the lonely man, who ceasedmumbling and muttering of Florida, andthrew himself with a will into the work inhand.

The high rock-cliffs that flanked thevalley of the Ignatook curved toward thewest in two solid walls, unbroken exceptat a point two miles above the old mine,where a narrow ravine led in a long,winding slope to the level of thesurrounding plateau.

It was by way of this ravine, O'Brienassured them, Carlson had taken hisdeparture; and that this fact was known tothe White Indians was clearlydemonstrated when, each day they sawsilent fur-clad figures silhouetted againstthe clearcut skyline. There was somethingominous and forbidding in the attitude ofthe silent sentinels of the frozen wasteswho thus guarded the exits from the valleyof the creek-of-the-steam. Time and again

Connie glanced from the immutablewatchers to the blackened bones upon thegravel at his feet. These were men, once;had they really drunk the poison water?Or, had they been held prisoners until theystarved, by the human vultures that gloatedin their lonely perches high among therim-rocks?

"If you couldn't outguess 'em, why didn'tyou rush 'em?" he asked one day,addressing a sightless, grinning skull. Andbehind him, O'Brien laughed.

"They won't foind our-rn here, willthey, b'y?"

"You bet they won't!" exclaimedConnie, and shook a small fist at asolitary, motionless figure on the brink of

the high rock wall.

To the westward of the mouth of theravine the walls drew close together, sothat the hot black waters of the creekcompletely filled the narrow gorge andeffectively blocked any further ascent ofthe valley.

"I don't like to huht no one, needless,"said Waseche Bill, as they sat about thefireplace one evening discussing plans forescape; "but we-all got to get out of heah—an' we ah goin' to get out too—an' if itcomes right down to a matteh of them, oahus, why it's theah own fault if they gethuht."

"Yis," agreed O'Brien, "Oi shpose ye'reroight. But, somehow—ye see—they

divoided grub wid me phwin they wuzhungr-ry."

"I know, O'Brien, but that don't give 'emno right to hold us heah, an' to stahve usan' steal ouh dawgs, neitheh. We needthem dawgs to get back with—an' we ahgoin' to keep 'em. We-all cain't stay heahno longeh—much. 'Cause, outside of themeat an' fish, we ah runnin' pow'ful shohtof grub. An', besides, the days is gettin'longeh mighty fast, an' the trail ahead of usis a long trail—even if we have goodluck, an' if the snow softs up on us wecain't haul no load, an' when it melts wecain't cross no rivehs, an' if we get to themountains yondeh, we won't have no ice-trail to get out on. No, seh! We got to getout of heah—an' we got to go now—an' if

anyone tries fo' to stop us, why somethin'sgoin' to happen—that's all."

"They's wan way—an' ondly wan, thatwe c'n me'be give um th' shlip," saidO'Brien. "'Tain't no use thryin' ut in th'dar-rk, f'r th' rayvine is narrow an' they'vea foire at th' head uv ut. We'll be travellin'heavy, an' we can't git t'rough um wid awhoop an' hurrah, loike we done in th'village—but we moight shlip by in th'shnow."

"In the snow?" asked Connie. "What doyou mean?"

"Sur-re, they's a star-rm brewin'—th'soigns is roight, an' th' fale av ut's in th'air. Wan day, or two, an' she'll br-reak,beloike, on th' tur-rn av th' moon. Phwin

she thickens up, th' Injuns'll hit f'r th'igloos as fasht as their legs'll carry thim,an' not a nose'll they shtick outsoide till utquits shnowin'. F'r they've a fear in theirhear-rts f'r th' star-rm, an' they've noshtummick f'r to be ketched out in ut——"

"Them, an' me—both!" interruptedWaseche Bill.

"Ahroo! Now, come on! Ut's f'r theirown good we're doin' ut. Oi know th' fur-rst fifteen er me'be ut's twinty moiles avth' thrail to th' Kandik. We'll wor-rk utloike this: They know they's a star-rmcomin'—Oi seen a little knot av um on th'edge av th' clift a jabberin' an' p'intin' intoth' Narth. We'll let um see us fetchin'wood into th' moine, loike we wuz gittin'ridy to hole up f'r th' star-rm. Th' sleds

we'll load jist insoide th' mouth av th'tunnel, an' phwin they hit f'r th' villagewe'll har-rness th' dogs an' shlip up th'rayvine, an' out achrost th' bench. They's abit av a mountain out yondher, me'be ut'stin moiles, an' on th' soide av ut we c'ncamp snug in th' scr-rub, till th' shnowquits. Our tr-racks'll be burried, an' ut'llbe a couple av days befoor they foind outwe're gone, an' be th' toime they've pickedup our thrail, we'll be out av their raych—f'r they'll venture not far-r to th' west,havin' fear-r av phwat lies beyant."

O'Brien finished, and Waseche turnedto Connie:

"What do yo' say, son?" he asked."Shall we try it? It ain't a goin' to be nosnap, out theah on the white bench with the

snow an' th' roahin' wind. It's a funny thing—this heah takin' a long chanst jes' tokeep a gang of Injuns from hahmin' us sowe won't hahm them."

"They divoided their grub," repeatedO'Brien, with an appealing glance at theboy.

"And, for that, we'll take a chance!"answered Connie. "We're game."

Breakfast over, the following morning,the three busied themselves in cuttingfirewood and carrying it into the tunnel.Indians appeared here and there among therim-rocks and, after watching for a time,departed in the direction of the village. Bynoon, the weather had thickenedperceptibly. A thin grey haze filled the

atmosphere through which the weak raysof the Arctic sun filtered feebly. Therewas no wind, and the air lost itsinvigorating crispness and clung heavilyabout them like a wet garment. No moreIndians appeared upon the edges of thecliffs and Waseche Bill ventured upon ascouting expedition up the narrow ravine,while Connie and O'Brien remainedbehind to pack the sleds and carry anoccasional armful of firewood for thebenefit of any lingering observer.

The boy insisted upon loading Carlson'ssled, carefully fitting the collars to thenecks of his own three dogs, which hadbeen hardly a half-dozen times in theharness since their memorable dashthrough the hills when Connie beat out the

Ten Bow stampede.

Waseche returned reporting a cleartrail, and all fell to harnessing the dogs.

"Whateveh yo' doin' with that sled?"asked Waseche, in surprise.

"I'm going to take it along," answeredConnie. "You can't ever tell what willhappen, and old Boris and Mutt andSlasher may as well be working asrunning loose."

Waseche grinned:

"Go ahead if yo' want to. Them ol'dawgs mout get somewhehs with it, an' ifthey don't, yo' c'n cut yo' trace-lines an'tu'n 'em loose."

"Is that so!" flared the boy. "If there'sany cutting loose to be done, you can do ityourself! This sled goes to Ten Bow! And,what's more, there isn't a lead dog in theworld that can touch old Boris—and youknow it! And if big Mutt couldn't out-pullany two of your dogs, he'd be ashamed towaggle his tail! And Slasher could lickyour whole team—and Mac's, too! And Iwouldn't trade a flea off any one of mydogs for your whole string of mangymalamutes—so there!"

Waseche chuckled with delight as hewinked at O'Brien:

"If yo' eveh want to staht somethin' rightquick," he laughed, "jest yo' go ahead an'belittle th' kid's dawgs." And then hedodged swiftly as one of the boy's heavy

mittens sailed past his head and slappedsmartly against the wall.

O'Brien's two cans of gold wereremoved from the "safe" and placed,together with the sleeping-bags, robes andblankets, upon Connie's sled. The stonewas adroitly wedged into place andarranged so naturally that no maraudingvisitor could possibly have guessed thatthe innocent-appearing rock concealed atreasure of upwards of one hundredthousand dollars' worth of pure gold. Thecaribou venison and fish, together withwhat remained of the outfit, had alreadybeen securely lashed to the larger sledsand, with a last look of farewell, the littlecavalcade moved from the tunnel-mouthand headed for the ravine.

All trace of the sun was obliterated, andfor the first time since the big blizzard, theArctic sky was overcast with clouds.

Waseche Bill took the lead withMcDougall's big ten-team, Conniefollowed with his own three dogs, whileO'Brien, with Waseche's team, brought upthe rear. The sleds slipped smoothly overthe dry frost spicules, and the eyes of thethree adventurers eagerly sought the edgesof the high cliffs for signs of the WhiteIndians. But no living, moving thing wasvisible, and, save for the occasional creakof runners, the white, frozen world was aworld of silence.

A half-hour later the malamutes headedup the ravine and humped to the pull of thelong ascent. Rapidly, the weather

thickened, and when, at last, they gainedthe bench, it was to gaze out upon aneerie, flat, white world of fore-shortenedhorizon. The sleds were halted while thethree took their bearings. O'Brien pointedunhesitatingly toward the opaque west,and Waseche swung McDougall's leaders.

"Mush yo'! Mush yo'!" he yelled."Hooray fo' Alaska!"

"An' Flor-ridy, too!" yelled O'Brien,and then a puff of wind—chill wind, thatfelt strangely clammy and damp in theintense cold, came out of the North. Thelong, serpentine bank of frozen fog thatmarked the course of the Ignatook,shuddered and writhed and eddied, whileragged patches of frozen rack detachedthemselves and flew swiftly southward.

The air was filled with a dull roar, and ascattering of steel-like pellets hissedearthward. A loud cry pierced the roar ofthe approaching storm, and before themstood a solitary White Indian, immovableas a statue, with one arm pointing into theNorth. For a long moment he stood andthen, in a whirl of flying spume,disappeared in the direction of the village.

"Come on, boys!" cried Connie, and hisvoice sounded far and thin. "Dig in!'Cause we're right now fighting theNorth!"

CHAPTER XVIITHE SNOW TRAIL

The situation faced by Connie Morgan,Waseche Bill, and O'Brien when theyheaded westward across the snow-riddenbench of the Lillimuit, was anything butencouraging. Before them, they knew, layAlaska. But how many unmapped miles,and what barriers of frozen desert andinsurmountable mountains interposed, theydid not know; nor did they know thelocation of the Kandik, the river by whichCarlson had returned to the land of men.For Carlson's trail map lay hidden in thepocket of O'Brien's discarded trousers in

a n igloo in the village of the WhiteIndians, and upon their own worth mustthe three win—or die.

There was no turning back now. Noreturning to the Ignatook to face starvationand the melting of the snow, for thesolitary Indian who witnessed theirdeparture had dashed to the village,bearing the information to his tribe.

If O'Brien were right in his conjecturethat the Indians would not venture into theopen in a storm, there would, in allprobability, be several days in which toescape, for Arctic storms are rarely ofshort duration. This seeming advantage,however, was offset by the fact that, atbest, the storm would seriously impedetheir own progress, and at worst—well, if

the worst happened, it would make nosmallest particle of difference whether theWhite Indians picked up their trail soon,or late.

After the first fierce rush had passed,the storm lulled and settled into a steadydrive of wind-hurled pellets that cut thethick air in long, stinging slants. The dry,shot-like particles burned and bit at thefaces of the three, and danced and whirledmerrily across the hard surface of thesnow to drift deep against obstructions.The dogs were in fine condition, well fed,and thoroughly rested during the days ofinactivity, and they strung out to the pullwith a will. The trail was fast. The hardcrust of the old snow gave excellentfooting and the three heavily loaded sleds

slipped smoothly and steadily in the wakeof Waseche Bill, who piloted theexpedition at a long, swinging trot, withConnie and O'Brien running beside theirrespective sleds.

It was well past noon when the startwas made, and the thick gloom of astarless night settled upon the storm-sweptbench as the little cavalcade reachedO'Brien's "bit av a mountain," and swunginto the shelter of the thicket upon its leeside. The dogs were unharnessed and fed,a fire lighted, and a snug camp sprang intoexistence under the deft movements of theexperienced tillicums.

"'Tis a foine shtar-rt we've made," saidO'Brien, as he poured melted suet over thecaribou steak upon his tin plate, "but

they'll be lookin' f'r us here, f'r they'vedhrug me out av th' scrub on this hill a fulldozen av toimes."

"We'll hit the trail at daylight,"answered Waseche Bill.

"Ut slues to th' Narth a bit from here.Oi've thr-ravelled th' nixt tin moile or so,but beyant that Oi've niver be'n able togit."

All night the hard, dry snow fell, and allnight the wind swept out of the North witha low, monotonous roar. By the light of theflaring fire they breakfasted, and at thefirst hint of dawn again took the trail. Adreary scene confronted the little partythat pulled heavily out of the shelteredthicket. All about them was the whirling,

driving whiteness, and beneath their feetthe loose, dry snow shifted and they sankankle deep into the yielding mass. Thesleds pulled hard, so that the dogs clawedfor footing, and the snowshoes wereplaced conveniently upon the top of thepacks, for soon the rackets would benecessary in the fast deepening snow.

O'Brien insisted that the trail "slued tothe Narth a bit," and as there was nothingfor it but to follow the Irishman's vaguedirection, Waseche changed the course, aproceeding that added materially to thediscomfort of the journey, as it forcedthem to travel more nearly into the teeth ofthe wind. At noon a halt was made forluncheon and a brief rest in the shelter ofthe close-drawn sleds. During the last

hour the character of the storm hadchanged and the wind whipped upon themin veering gusts that struck furiously fromevery point of the compass at once. Thesnow, too, changed, and the hard, drypellets gave place to a fine, powderysnow-dust that filled the eyes and nostrilsand worked uncomfortably beneath theclothing. Snow-shoes were fastened on,and with lowered heads and muffled facesthe three headed again into the unknown.

With the coming of darkness, theycamped at the fork of a frozen river wherea sparse growth of stunted willow gavepromise of firewood and scant shelter.They were in a new world, now—aworld, trackless and unknown, for duringthe afternoon they had passed beyond

O'Brien's farthest venture and the Irishmanwas as ignorant of what lay before them aswere Connie and Waseche Bill, whoknew only that they were in the midst of atrackless void of seething snow, with theWhite Indians behind them and Alaskabefore—and all about them, death, grimand silent, and gaunt—death that stalkedclose, ready on the instant to take its toll,as it had taken its toll from other men whohad braved the Lillimuit and never againreturned.

"She's a reg'lah blizzahd, now,"remarked Waseche, as he lighted his pipewith a brand from the camp-fire. "Anyotheh time, we'd lay by an' wait fo' it toweah down—but, we dastn't stop."

"The Indians will never pick up our

trail when this storm quits," venturedConnie.

"No—'ceptin' they're wise that we-alltuck out this-away, havin' followedO'Brien almost this fah befo'."

"Aye—her-re, or her-re abouts,"assented the Irishman, "we nade an-nyways wan mor-re day av thrailin' beforewe hole up, an' me'be be that toime th'star-rm will be wor-re out."

On the morning of the third day theyagain started in the dull grey of the dawn.Waseche, with lowered head, boredthrough the white smother that surroundedthem like a wall of frozen fog. The dogs,still in good heart, humped bravely to thepull, and Connie and O'Brien, with hands

clutching the tail-ropes of the sleds,followed blindly. On and on they plodded,halting at intervals only long enough toconsult the compass, for with nothing tosight by, they held their course by the aidof the needle alone.

Suddenly Connie's sled stopped soabruptly that the boy tripped and sprawledat full length beside its canvas-coveredpack, while behind him, Waseche'sleaders, in charge of O'Brien, swervedsharply to avoid the savage fangs ofSlasher—for the wolf-dog knew his kind—he knew that, once down, a man ismeat, and the moment the boy fell helplessinto the snow, the great, gaunt brute surgedback in the traces, jerking old Boris andMutt with him, and stood guard over the

prostrate form of his master, where hegrowled defiance into the faces of thedogs of the following team. Scramblinghastily to his feet, Connie was joined byO'Brien and together they stumbledforward where McDougall's big ten-teamhad piled up in a growling, snappingtangle upon the very brink of aperpendicular precipice. For the leadershad leaped back from the edge sosuddenly that they fouled the swing dogswhich, with tooth and nail, and throatygrowl, were protesting against theindignity.

"Where's Waseche!" The voice of theboy cut high and thin above the roar of thestorm-choked wind, and O'Brien ceasedabruptly his endeavour to straighten out

the fighting malamutes. He stumbledhastily to the boy's side, but Waseche wasno place to be seen, and upon the verge ofthe chasm, the overhanging snow-rim wasgouged deep and fresh with a man-madescar.

The dogs were forgotten, and for a longmoment the two stood peering over theedge, striving to penetrate the writhingwhirl of snow-powder that filled theyawning abyss—but the opaque mass gaveno hint of the depth or extent of the chasm.Again and again they shouted, but theirvoices were drowned in the bellow of thewind, and to their ears was borne nofaintest answering call.

To Connie Morgan it seemed, at last, hehad come to the end of the trail. A strange

numbness overcame him that dulled hissenses and paralyzed his brain. His mindgroped uncertainly.... Waseche was gone!He had fallen over the edge of the cliffand was lying at the bottom—and theywould find him there—the men who wereto come—and himself and O'Brien theywould find at the top—and the dogs wereall tangled—and it would be better, now,to sleep. No—they must push on—theywere on the trail.... Where were theygoing? Oh, yes, to Alaska—back to TenBow, and the cabin, and the claim! Butthey couldn't go on.... This was the end....They had come to the place where theworld breaks off—and Waseche hadfallen over the edge.

The boy gazed stupidly into the milky,

eddying chaos. It looked soft, down there—like feathers, or the meringue on pie. Itis a good place to fall, he thought, thisplace where the world stops—you couldfall, and fall, and fall, and you wouldn'thave to light—and it would be fun. TheLillimuit was a funny place, anyway—"thecountry where men don't come back from,"Joe had said, that night—back there in thehotel at Eagle. Carlson didn't come back——

"Why, Carlson's dead!" he cried sosharply that, at his side, O'Brien started.

"Sur-re, b'y, he's dead—but—" Theman's voice aroused him as from a dream.His brain cleared, and suddenly herealized that Waseche Bill was lost—waseven then lying wounded—probably dead,

at the bottom of the cliff. With a low,choking sob, the boy whirled on O'Brien,who jumped at the sharp word ofcommand:

"Get the ropes! Quick! While Iunharness the dogs!" The Irishman sprangto the rear sled where two forty-foot coilsof babiche line lay ready for just such anemergency, while Connie sprang amongMcDougall's tangled malamutes, slashingright and left with his coiled whiplash. Atthe sudden attack the dogs ceased fightingand cowered whimpering while the boyslipped their collars, and by the timeO'Brien returned with the lines, Conniewas ready for the next move.

"Work the sled closer—crossways!Crossways—so she'll hold!" he cried, as

he knotted the lines securely together andmade an end fast about his body.

"Brace against the sled, now, and loweraway!"

"Phwat ye goin' to do?" asked the man,eyeing the line.

"Do! I'm going after Waseche, of course——"

"But, ye don't know how daype ut is—an' th' rope moight bre'k!"

"What difference does that make?"cried the boy. "If the rope won't reach—we'll make it reach! We'll splice on theharness, and the blankets, and the tarps,and the robes, and whatever else we canlay our hands on—and if it don't reach

then, we'll kill the dogs! I'll get mypardner out of there if I have to kill everydog in the outfit and use their hides. And ifthe rope breaks—I'll be where Wasecheis, anyway!"

"Without waiting for a reply, Connieslipped softly over the edge."

Without waiting for a reply, the boyseated himself in the snow and slippedsoftly over the edge. Slowly he descendedinto the riot of whirling snow, whileabove him, O'Brien, with heels bracedagainst the runners of the heavy sled,carefully paid out the line. Down, down,he went, scraping and bumping against thewall. It seemed to the impatient boy asthough each moment he must reach the endof his rope—surely, he had descendedeighty feet! But on he went, down, down,down—and then, when the suspense wasbecoming almost unbearable, his feettouched bottom, and he stood upright uponthe snow. And, above, O'Brien felt theline go slack, and heaved a great sigh ofrelief as he glanced at the scant six feet ofrope that remained.

Jagged rock-slivers protruded from thesnow, here and there, at the base of thecliff, and Connie shuddered as he gazedabout him. Suddenly he cried out, andplunged to the end of his line, for there,close beside a huge block of stone, hemade out a dark blur on the white surfaceof the snow—it was the back of a furparka!

The next instant, the boy was kneelingbeside the inert form of Waseche Bill.Frantically he pulled and hauled at theman until at length he succeeded in turninghim upon his back, and then it was henoticed the leg doubled curiously beneathhim. Very gently Connie laid hold of thefoot and drew it into position beside theother, and as the leg straightened out he

could feel the grating rasp of bone on bone—the leg was broken!

His first thought was to arouse theunconscious man, but instead he beganswiftly to remove the rope from about hisown body and fasten it firmly underWaseche's armpits.

"If I wake him up now, it will hurt likethunder when O'Brien hauls him up," hemuttered, as he gave the three quick jerksto the line that had been the agreed signalto "haul away." The next moment the ropewent taut, and slowly, very slowly, theinanimate form lifted and swung clear ofthe snow.

O'Brien was a big man—and a strongone. But for the next few minutes he had

his work cut out.

"He's found um!" he panted, as hepaused to rest, with the rope wrappedtightly about his arm. "Sur-re, th' b'y'sniver as heavy as that—an', be jabbers! Oibelayve th' two av thim's cumin' up towanst."

At length Waseche's body wedgedagainst the edge of the cliff and O'Brien,making the line fast to the heavy sled,dragged the unconscious form clear, andweighting the line with an ice ax, loweredit into the chasm. Five minutes later theboy scrambled over the rim, and droppedto his knees beside the inert form in thesnow.

"Get up the shelter tarp—quick!" he

ordered, as he scraped the loose snowfrom a wide space near the sled and,rummaging in his pack, produced aquantity of grease-soaked moss and abundle of dry firewood.

"His leg's broken, and we've got to setit," he explained, as a tiny flame flared inthe shelter of the wide tarpaulin, and heproceeded to remove the man's muklukand heavy socks.

"Ye'll fr-reeze his leg!" exclaimedO'Brien, in alarm.

"Can't help it—we've got to take achance. He'll die, or be crippled for life ifwe don't set it—so here goes!"

The foot was badly swollen, and

midway between the ankle and the kneewas a great bluish-green bruise where theleg had struck the rock at the foot of thecliff. The blow had broken both bones,and the overlapping ends made anunsightly bunch upon the side of the leg.Deftly and skilfully the boy's fingersexplored the hurt.

"We've got to pull 'em by and snap 'eminto place," he explained. "I know how—we set Newt Boyer's legs, in Ten Bow,when a log rolled on him."

Again they made the line fast beneaththe man's shoulders, and bound him firmlyto the loaded sled. O'Brien seized hold ofthe foot and, bracing himself in the snow,pulled for all he was worth, while Conniepressed against the bone ends with his

palms.

"Pull! Pull—can't you!" urged the boy."Only a quarter of an inch more and they'llclick—and the job will be done!" ButO'Brien was pulling, and although hestrained and tugged to the very limit of hisstrength, the ends still overlapped.Suddenly the boy leaped to his feet.

"Swing those dogs in here!" he cried,pointing to Waseche's team that remainedstill harnessed. "A little farther! Woah!That'll do—now, wait!" Swiftly hestooped, and with a few quick turns,bound the injured foot tightly to the backof the sled.

"Now, pull up—easy, at first—don'tjerk! That's right!" he cried, as the leg

stretched taut, "now, make 'em pull!"

Again the boy dropped to his knees andworked rapidly with his fingers, whileunder O'Brien's urging Waseche'smalamutes humped and clawed as theypulled. There was a slight click, as thebone-ends snapped into place, and theIrishman heard the delighted voice of theboy:

"Woah! She's set! She's set! Ease off,now, and hand me the splints!"

The splints, rudely split from pieces offirewood, were applied and held in placeby strips torn from the tarp, a blanket waswrapped about the injured member, andthe patient made as comfortable aspossible beside the fire in the lee of the

shelter tarp. But it was an hour laterbefore Waseche Bill opened his eyes andgazed inquiringly about him.

"What happened?" he asked, as a sharppain caused him to stare in surprisetoward his blanket-swathed leg.

"Sur-re, ye walked over th' edge av aclift, an' lit on th' rocks, a mather avsiventy feet below—an' th' b'y, here, wuzover an' afther yez befoor ye lit. Yer leg'sbruk squar-re in two, but th' lad set utloike an-ny docther c'd done—an' betherthin most."

"O'Brien helped!" interrupted Connie.

"Aye, a bit. An' so did the dogs. But, th'b'y—he wuz th' captain. Ye sh'd o' seed

um shlip over th' edge on th' ind av histhread av a loine, into th' whirlin' scatherav shnow, when ye c'd see nayther bottomnor soides. 'Oi'm a-goin afther Waseche!'he says—An' he done so."

"O'Brien pulled you up," said the boy,as Waseche leaned over and grasped thesmall hand in his own big one. He spokeno word, but in the pressure of the mightyhand-grasp the boy read the man-sign oftillicums.

CHAPTER XVIIIALASKA!

They camped for the remainder of theday.

"'Tain't no use grumblin' on ouh luck,"remarked the philosophical Waseche. "Wegot to camp right heah till the stawmweahs out. Chances is, we'll have theInjuns onto us in a day oah so; but wecain't go bluste'catin' no mo' wheah wecain't see. Anyhow, they ain't no useborrowin' trouble—theh's a right smaht ofit a-comin' to a man without him huntin'none. So fah, we're all to the good. The

big Nawth's fightin' to hold her secrets,but she ain't handed us no knockout—yet."

During the night the storm ceased, andwith the first hint of dawn the outfit wasmade ready for the trail. Robes werespread upon Connie's light sled, andWaseche Bill placed in his sleeping bagand bound securely upon the robes withmany turns of babiche. The bundles offirewood, and O'Brien's cans of gold weretransferred to the other sleds, and in thedull grey of the long morning twilight theoutfit pulled southward over the bench,paralleling the edge of the ravine intowhich Waseche had fallen. Progress wasslow. The fresh snow rolled up andclogged the free running of the sleds, sothat both Connie and O'Brien mushed

ahead of the dogs, breaking out the trailwith their rackets. Hour after hour theymushed, seeking to cross the great fissurethat gaped wide and deep between themand the distant mountains that loomedwhite and grand against the westernskyline—the mountains that separatedthem from Alaska, and through whosefastnesses they must find a trail.

The belated sun peeped over the rim ofthe flat snow tundra behind them, and allthree turned to view the welcome sight.Suddenly, O'Brien, with a sharp cry,pointed toward some tiny moving objectsfar to the eastward:

"The Injuns," he cried. "That haythen,Lemlak—th' wan that seen us layve th'Ignatook—he's put um on our thr-rail—an'

ut's back we go, av they don't har-rpoon us—as sur-re's me name's PathrickO'Brien!"

"It's back we don't go! And you can betyour bottom dollar on that!" cried Connie,as he glanced with flashing eyes towardthe two high-power rifles lashed side byside against the rail of McDougall's sled."Look! There's the end of the ravine! Wecan head west now, and hit for themountains!"

"Sur-re, they'll ketch up to us, befoorwe git foive moile—we've got to bre'kthr-rail, an' they'll folly along in ut."

They were drawing nearer to the whiteexpanse that Connie had pointed out as theend of the ravine.

"Ut ain't th' ind! Ut's a shnow bridge!"exclaimed O'Brien, and the others saw,extending from side to side of the chasm,gleaming white in the slanting rays of thesun, an enormous snow arch.

"Recklessly O'Brien rushed out uponthe glittering span of snow while Connie

and Waseche watched breathlessly."

Without waiting for a line, O'Brienrushed out upon the glittering span, whileConnie and Waseche watchedbreathlessly. The great mass of snow thatbridged the chasm looked as solid as therock of Gibraltar, but the partners heaveda sigh of relief as the man reached theopposite side in safety and turned toretrace his steps. Connie's team, drawingthe injured man, crossed first and wasquickly followed by the two more heavilyloaded sleds.

"Now, let's hit for the mountains!" criedthe boy, "we've got miles and miles on

them yet."

"Hold on, son. We got lots of time,now. 'Spose yo' jes' bust open one of themtheah bundles of wood an' staht us a littlecamp-fiah."

"A camp-fire!" exclaimed the boy,"why, it isn't time to camp! And, besides——"

"Neveh yo' mind about that. Jes' do as Isaid, an' then swing that theah pack ofmine around heah an' prop me up agin' itbeside the fiah. Afteh that, I want yo' an'O'Brien to take Mac's dawgs an' yo'n an'wo'k yo' way to the top of yondeh hill an'see if yo' c'n find out how fah this heahravine runs—get busy, now."

The boy obeyed without question andsoon he and the Irishman were headed forthe hill a quarter of a mile up the ravine.

"I wonder what he's up to?" speculatedthe boy, with puckered brow. "You don'tsuppose it's his leg—fever, or something,that's made him kind of—of queer?"

"No, no, lad. Oi don't know phwat's onhis moind—but min loike him—theymostly knows phwat they're doin'—er theywouldn't be doin' ut."

From the top of the hill they saw that, asfar as the eye could reach, the ravine cutthe tundra in an unbroken line.

"They ain't no other cr-rossin'," saidO'Brien, so they retraced their steps to the

bridge, where they could see Wasechebending close over the tiny fire.

"Why, he's frying some meat!"exclaimed Connie, "and we just hadbreakfast!" They were close now, andWaseche removed a frying pan from theflame and poked gingerly at its contentswith a piece of brushwood. Apparentlysatisfied, he placed it beside him upon thesnow. Connie glanced into the pan where,instead of a caribou steak, the boy sawthree yellow sticks of dynamite.

"Why, you told me——!"

"Yes, kid, I done tol' yo' long ago,neveh to thaw out no giant in a pan—an' Imeant it! Mos'ly, yo' c'n do it—if yo'careful—but, sometimes she jes' nachelly

lets go, without no provocation, an' then—well, yo' rec'lect how we-all wiped po'Gus Meekin offen the bushes an' rocks, ahalf a mile from wheah his fiah was."

"But, you——"

"Hold on, son. This heah was apahtic'lah case. I figgehed it all out—an'took a chanct. That's why I sent yo' an'O'Brien oveh onto the hill, so's if she letgo they'd still be some of us left. Soon as Iseen the bridge I rec'lected how I had adozen sticks of giant in my outfit, an' a boxof caps, an' some fuse—wait, now, till Iset the caps, an' then yo' c'n touch off theshot. We'll use two sticks fust, an' save theotheh to finish off with, if we need it." Ashe talked Waseche Bill punched holes inthe soft yellow cylinders and affixed the

caps and fuse for a ten-minute shot.Connie and O'Brien placed the injuredman again upon the sled and made readyfor a quick getaway.

"Lay 'em side by side right in themiddle, an' coveh 'em with a couplehandfuls of snow," advised Waseche, "an'then we'll pull out on the flat a space an'watch the fun. When them Injuns gets tothe ravine it sho' will botheh 'em to figgehhow we-all got acrost."

A few minutes later they halted theoutfit well out of harm's way and watchedbreathlessly for the explosion. The miningof the bridge had taken time and, in thedistance, beyond the ravine, the WhiteIndians were rapidly gaining. A few of thestronger and more fleet were well within

rifle shot, when suddenly, with a dull roarand a blur of flying snow, the giant let go.The eyes of the three were fixed upon thebridge—or rather upon the place wherethe bridge had been—for all that remainedwas a cloud of powdery snow dust and athinning haze of light grey smoke. Thesnow dust settled, the smoke drifted awayand dissolved into the cold, clear air, andbetween the watchers and the WhiteIndians the unbridged ravine yawnedwide, and deep, and impassable.

"Whoop-la!" yelled O'Brien, leapinginto the air and cracking his heelstogether. "Come on an' git us, ye phirates!"And as the savages gathered upon theopposite side, the Irishman's laughter ranglong and loud across the frozen tundra.

The third day after the blowing up ofthe bridge found the three adventurersskirting the base of the great white rangethat towered in an unbroken chain as far asthe eye could reach to the northward andto the southward. Vast, and grim, andimpassable, the giant masses of rock andice loomed above them, their naked, blue-white peaks and pinnacles gleamingclean-cut and cold against the cloudlessturquoise of the sky.

All day long the three dog teamsmushed northward while Connie, andWaseche Bill, and O'Brien anxiouslyscanned the great barrier for signs of ariver or creek that gave promise ofleading to a divide. For, though theypassed the mouths of dozens of creeks and

canyons, none were sufficiently large totempt exploration.

Waseche Bill's injured leg was muchswollen, for the trail was rough andtortuous, and despite the utmost efforts ofConnie and O'Brien, the light sled bumpedand slued against obstructions in a mannerthat caused the man excruciating torture,although neither by sign nor sound, did hebetray the slightest pain. The Irishman andthe boy took turns breaking trail forMcDougall's leaders, and working at thegee-pole to ease the light sled over therough places. Waseche's own dogsfollowed McDougall's, thus giving asmoother trail to the sled bearing theinjured man.

The afternoon was well spent when

Connie, who was in the rear, noticed agrowing uneasiness among the dogs ofWaseche's team. The big malamuteswhined and whimpered with a peculiarsuppressed eagerness as they eyed themountains and, pulling close, tried timeand again to pass the lead sled.

"That's funny," thought the boy, as hewatched the dogs closely, "I never sawthose dogs act like that before—seemslike they wanted to lead." Hour after hourthe boy mushed at the tail rope, andalways he watched the strange behaviourof Waseche Bill's dogs. The sun sankbehind the mountains and, at last, O'Brienhalted at the edge of a patch of scraggyspruce. The dogs were unharnessed andfed, and after Waseche was made

comfortable at the fireside, Connieprepared supper.

Suddenly, all three were startled by thelong howl of a sled dog and, turningquickly saw Waseche's huge leaderstanding with up-pointing muzzle, upon alow hill, some fifty yards distant, andabout him stood the seven dogs of histeam. Again he howled, and then, asthough this were the signal, the wholepack turned tail and dashed into the North.

"Well, of all the doggone, ornery tricksI eveh heahed tell of—that takes the cake!"cried Waseche. "Pulled out on us! Jes'plumb pulled out! An' them's good dawgs,too!"

"Where did you get that team?" asked

Connie excitedly.

"Picked 'em up off a man in Eagle,"answered Waseche. "He aimed to gooutside, come spring. He got 'em off abreed, a yeah back."

"Where do you s'pose they've gone?"asked the boy.

"Sea'ch me! I cain't onde'stand it."

"Ut's th' Lillimuit!" croaked O'Brien."Ut wuz th' same wid Craik an'Greenhow!" The man shuddered and drewcloser to the fire. "They's things here thatondly some c'n see! An' phwin they see um—always they head into th' Narth!"

"Sho'! Quit yo' calamatatin', O'Brien!Dawgs has pulled out on folks befo'."

"Thim wans ain't," returned theIrishman, and relapsed into gloomysilence.

With the first sign of dawn the outfitwas again on the trail. The bulk of thepack had been removed from Waseche'ssled and added to the other two, and thesled and harness cached in the bush. Forseveral miles Connie, who was travellingin the lead, followed the trail of thestampeded dog-pack, when suddenly hepaused where a narrow creek canyonclove the rock-wall of a mountain. Thetrail led into the gorge, which appeared tobe a mere crack in the mighty wall.

"Follow 'em up, son!" called Wasechefrom his sled. "We need them dawgs."

So the boy swung McDougall's teaminto the canyon, and his own dogsfollowed, with O'Brien fast to the tailrope. On and on led the narrow trail—westward, and upward, winding andtwisting between its rocky walls—butalways westward, and upward. The floorwas surprisingly smooth for so narrow atrail, and the outfit made good time, but allthree expected that each turn would be thelast, and that they would find the runawaydogs huddled against a dead end. Towardmidday, the canyon grew lighter, the wallsseemed not so high, and the ascent grewsteeper. Suddenly, as they rounded a sharpturn, a brilliant patch of sunlight burstupon them, and the next moment they foundthemselves upon the summit of a longdivide.

Never in their lives had any of the threegazed upon so welcome a sight, for there,to the westward, lay an unending chaos ofhigh-flung peaks and narrow valleys, andeasily traceable—leading in a broad pathof white to the south-westward, was thesmooth trail of a river!

"The Kandik!" cried Connie, "andAlaska!"

"H-o-o-r-a-y!" yelled O'Brien, dancingabout in the snow, while the tearsstreamed unheeded from his eyes. "Ut'sgood-bye Lillimuit, foriver! Av ye wuzpure gold from th' middle av th' wor-rld toth' peak av ye're hoighest hill, Oi w'dn'tniver go no closter thin th' furthest awayOi c'd git from ye! A-h-r-o-o! Wid ye'redead min—an' ye're cowld!"

CHAPTER XIXON THE KANDIK

To the conqueror of far places comesdisaster in many guises—to the sailor whosails the uncharted seas, and to theadventurer who pushes past the outpostsinto the unmapped land of the long snowtrails. For the lone, drear lands are landsof primal things—lands rugged and grim,where life is the right of the strongest andonly the fit survive.

Men die when ships, in the grip of thefierce hurricane, are buried beneathcrashing waves or dashed against the

rocks of a towering cliff; and men die inblizzards and earthquakes and in thebelching fire of volcanoes and amid theroar and smoke of burning forests—butthese men expect to die. They match theirpuny strength against the mighty fury of theelements and meet death gladly—or winthrough to glory in the adventure. Suchbattles with the giants of nature strike nohorror to the hearts of men—they arerecounted with a laugh. Not so the deaththat lurks where nature smiles. Calmwaters beneath their sparkling surfaceconceal sharp fangs of rock that rip thebottom from an unsuspecting ship; abeautiful mirage paints upon theshimmering horizon a picture of cool,green shade and crystal pools, and thirst-choked men are lured farther into the

springless desert; the smooth, velvetysurface of quicksand pits and "soap-holes"beguiles the unsuspecting feet of the wearytraveller; and the warm Chinook windsoftens the deep snow beneath a smilingwinter sky. In all these things is death—asardonic, derisive death that lurks unseenand unsuspected for its prey. But theclaws of the tiger are none the less sharpbecause concealed between soft pads.And the men who win through the unseendeath never recount their story with alaugh. These men are silent. Or, if theyspeak at all, it is in low, tense tones, withclenched fists, and many pauses betweenthe words, and into their eyes creeps thelook of unveiled horror.

Connie Morgan, Waseche Bill, and

O'Brien laboriously worked the outfitdown the steep trail that led from thedivide to the snow-buried surface of theKandik. The distance, in an air line, waspossibly three miles—by the steep andwinding caribou trail it was ten. And eachmile was a mile of gruelling toil with axeand shovel and tail-rope and brake-pole,for the snow lay deep upon the trail whichtwisted and doubled interminably,narrowing in places to a mere shelf highupon the side of a sheer rock wall. At suchspots Connie and O'Brien took turns withaxe and shovel, heaving the snow into thecanyon; for to venture upon the drifts,high-piled upon the edge of the precipice,would have been to invite instant disaster.

Waseche Bill, despite the pain of his

broken leg, insisted upon being proppedinto position to brake his own sled. It wasthe heavier sled, double-freighted byreason of the stampede of Waseche's dogs,that caused Connie and O'Brien thehardest labour; for its loss meant death byexposure and starvation.

Night overtook them with scarce halfthe distance behind them, and they campedon a small plateau overlooking a deepravine.

Morning found them again at their workin the face of a stiff gale from the south-west. The sun rose and hung low in thecloudless sky above the sea of gleamingwhite peaks. The mercury expanded in thetube of the thermometer and the wind lostits chill. Connie and O'Brien removed

their heavy parkas, and Waseche Billthrew back his hood and frowneduneasily:

"Sho' wisht this heah Chinook w'd heltoff about ten days mo'," he said. "I ain'tacquainted through heah, but I reckon nineoah ten days had ort to put us into Eagle ifthe snow holds."

"It's too early for the break-up!"exclaimed Connie.

"Yeh, fo' the break-up, it is. But theseheah Chinooks yo' cain't count on. I'vesaw three foot of snow melt in a night an'a day—an' then tuhn 'round an' freeze upfo' two months straight. If this heah winddon't shift oah die down again tomorrowmo'nin', we ah goin' to have to hole up an'

wait fo' a freeze."

"The grub won't hold out long,"ventured Connie, eyeing the sled. "Butthere must be game on this side of thedivide."

"They betteh be! I sho' do hate it—bein'crippled up this-a-way an' leavin' yo'-allto do the wo'k."

"Niver 'yez moind about that!"exclaimed O'Brien. "Sur-re, we'd all bewor-rkin' as har-rd as we could an-nyways, an' ut w'dn't make ut no aisyer f'rus bekase ye was wor-rkin', too. Jist setye by an' shmoke yer poipe, an' me an' th'b'y'll have us on th' river be noon."

By dint of hard labour and much

snubbing and braking, O'Brien'sprediction was fulfilled and the middaymeal was eaten upon the snow-coveredice of the Kandik.

"All aboard for Eagle!" cried Connie,as he cracked his long-lashed whip andled out upon the broad river trail. AndMcDougall's big malamutes as thoughthey understood the boy's words, humpedto the pull and the heavily loaded sledslipped smoothly over the surface of thesoftening snow. Upon the trail from thedivide, protected from wind and sun byhigh walls, the snow had remained stiffand hard, but here on the river the sledrunners left deep ruts behind them, and notinfrequently slumped through, so thatConnie and O'Brien were forced to stop

and pry them out, and also to knock theballs of packed snow from the webs oftheir rackets.

"Saints be praised, ut's a house!" calledO'Brien, as toward evening he halted at asharp bend of the river and pointedtoward a tiny cabin that nestled in a groveof balsam at the edge of the high cut-bank.

"Ut's th' fur-rst wan Oi've seed in sixyear—barrin' thim haythen igloos av'dhrift-wood an' shnow blocks! We'll shtayth' night wid um, whoiver they ar-re—an'happy Oi'll be wid a Christian roof overme head wanst more!"

The outfit was headed for the cabin anda quarter of an hour later they swung intothe small clearing before the door.

"Them dawgs has be'n heah," remarkedWaseche Bill, as he eyed the troddensnow. "Don't reckon nobody's to home."O'Brien pushed open the door and entered,closely followed by Connie.

Save for a rude bunk built against thewall, and a rusted sheet-iron stove, thecabin was empty, and despite the peculiarmusty smell of an abandoned building, thetravellers were glad to avail themselvesof its shelter. Waseche Bill was madecomfortable with robes and blankets, andwhile O'Brien unharnessed the dogs andrustled the firewood, Connie unloaded theoutfit and carried it inside. The sun hadlong set, but with the withdrawal of itsheat the snow had not stiffened and thewind held warm.

"Betteh let in the dawgs, tonight, son,"advised Waseche, "I'm 'fraid we ah in fo'a thaw. Still it mout tuhn cold in the nightan' freeze 'em into the snow."

"How long will it last—the thaw?"asked the boy, as he eyed the supply ofprovisions.

"Yo' cain't tell. Two days—me'be three—sometimes a week—then, anyway, oneday mo', till she freezes solid."

"O'Brien and I will have to hunt then—grub's getting low."

"We'll see how it looks tomorrow. Ifit's like I think, yo' ain't a-goin' to be ableto get fah to do no huntin'. The snow'll belike mush."

As O'Brien tossed the last armful uponhis pile of firewood, Connie announcedsupper, and the three ate in silence—ashungry men eat.

Worn out by the long, hard day on thetrail, all slept soundly, and when theyawoke it was to find the depressions in thedirt floor filled with water which enteredthrough a crack beneath the door.

"We-all ah sho' 'nough tied up, now,"exclaimed Waseche, as he eyed the tinytrickle. "How much grub we got?" Connieexplored the pack.

"Three or four days. We better cut thedogs to half-ration."

"Them an' us, both," replied the man in

the bunk, and groaned as a hot pain shotthrough his injured leg.

Breakfast over, Connie picked up hisrifle, fastened on his snowshoes, andstepped on the wind-softened snow. Hehad taken scarcely a half-dozen stepswhen he was forced to halt—anchoredfast in the soggy snow. In vain he tried toraise first one foot and then the other—itwas no use. The snow clung to his racketsin huge balls and after repeated efforts heloosened the thongs and stepped on themelting snow, into which he promptlysank to his middle. He freed his rackets,tossed them toward the cabin, andwallowed to the door.

"Back a'ready?" grinned Waseche."How's the huntin'?" Connie laughed.

"You wait—I haven't started yet!"

"Betteh keep inside, son. Yo' cain't dono good out theah. They cain't no gamemove in a thaw like this."

"Rabbits and ground squirrels andptarmigan can," answered the boy.

"Yeh—but yo' cain't!"

"I'm not going far. I'm wet now, and I'mnot going to give up without trying." Threehours later he stumbled again through thedoor, bearing proudly a bedraggledptarmigan and a lean ground squirrel, eachneatly beheaded by a bullet from his high-power rifle. As he dried his clothingbeside the rusty stove, the boy dressed hisgame, carefully dividing the offal between

old Boris, Mutt, and Slasher, and the dogsgreedily devoured it to the last hair andfeather.

"Every little bit helps," he smiled. "Butit sure is a little bit of meat for such a lotof work. I bet I didn't get a quarter of amile away."

For three days the wind held, the sunshone, and the snow melted. Streamsforced their way to the river and thesurface of the Kandik became a ragingtorrent—a river on top of a river! Eachday Connie hunted faithfully, sometimes invain, but generally his efforts wererewarded by a ptarmigan, or a brace oflank snowshoe rabbits or groundsquirrels, lured from their holes by thefeel of the false spring.

On the fourth night it turned cold, and inthe morning the snow was crusted oversufficiently to support a man's weight onthe rackets. The countless tiny rills thatsupplied the river were dried and theflood subsided and narrowed to themiddle of the stream, while upon theedges the slush and anchor-ice froze roughand uneven.

Waseche Bill's injured leg was muchswollen and caused him great pain, but hebore it unflinchingly and laughed andjoked gaily. But Connie was not deceived,for from the little fan of wrinkles at thecorners of the man's eyes, and the hard,drawn look about his mouth, the boy knewthat his big partner suffered intensely evenwhile his lips smiled and his words fell

lightly in droll banter.

Thanks to the untiring efforts of the boy,their supply of provisions remained nearlyintact, his rifle supplying the meat for theirfrugal meals. For two days past, O'Brienhad brooded in silence, sitting for hours ata time with his back against the log walland his gaze fixed, now upon the woundedman, and again upon the boy, or the greatshaggy malamutes that lay sprawled uponthe floor. He did his full share of thework: chopped the firewood, washed thedishes, and did whatever else wasnecessary about the camp while Conniehunted. But when he had finished helapsed into a gloomy reverie, duringwhich he would speak no word.

With the return of cold weather, the

dogs had been expelled from the cabin andhad taken up their quarters close besidethe wall at the back.

"Me'be tomorrow we c'n hit the trail,"said Waseche, as he noticed that the sun ofthe fourth day failed to soften the stiffeningcrust.

"We ought to make good time, now!"exclaimed the boy. But Waseche shook hishead.

"No, son, we won't make no good timethe way things is. The trail is rough an' thesha'p ice'll cut the dawg's feet so they'llhate to pull. Likewise, yo'n an' O'Brien's—them mukluks won't last a day, an' thesleds'll be hahd to manage, sluein'sideways an' runnin' onto the dawgs. I've

ice-trailed befo' now, an' it's wo'se eventhan soft snow. If yo' c'n travel light so yo'c'n ride an' save yo' feet an' keep thedawgs movin' fast, it ain't so bad—butmushin' slow, like we got to, an' sho't ofgrub besides—" The man shook his headdubiously and relapsed into silence,while, with his back against the wall,O'Brien listened and hugged closer hiscans of gold.

CHAPTER XXTHE DESERTER

Connie Morgan opened his eyes andblinked sleepily. Then, instantly hebecame wide awake, with a strange,indescribable feeling that all was notwell. Waseche Bill stirred uneasily in hissleep and through the cracks about theedges of the blanket-hung window andbeneath the door a dull grey light showed.The boy frowned as he tossed back hisrobes and drew on his mukluks. This wasthe day they were to hit the trail andO'Brien should have had the fire going andcalled him early. Suddenly the boy paused

and stared hard at the cold stove, and thenat the floor beside the stove—at the spotwhere O'Brien's blankets and robesshould have shown an untidy heap in thedull light of morning. Lightning-like, hisglance flew to the place at the base of thewall where the Irishman kept his gold—but the blankets and robes were gone, andthe gold was gone, and O'Brien—?Swiftly the boy flew to the door—the bigsled was missing, the harness, andMcDougall's dogs were gone, and O'Brienwas nowhere to be seen!

For a long, long time the boy stoodstaring out over the dim trail of the riverand then with clenched fists he steppedagain into the room. A hurried inspectionof the pack showed that the man had taken

most of the remaining fish andconsiderable of the food, also WasecheBill's rifle was missing from its place inthe far corner. With tight-pressed lips,Connie laid the fire in the little stove andwatched dumbly as the tiny yellow sparksshot upward past the holes in the rustypipe. Vainly the mind of the boy strove tograsp the situation, but his lips formedonly the words which he repeated overand over again, as if seeking their import:

"He's gone—he's gone—O'Brien'sgone." He could not understand it. Amongthe dwellers in the great white land theboy had known only men whose creedwas to stick together until the end. Fromthe hour he first set foot upon the dock atAnvik, to this very moment, with the

single exception of the little rat-faced manat Ten Bow, the boy had learned to lovethe big men of the North—men whosevices were rugged vices—flaunting andunashamed and brutish, perhaps—but men,any one of whom would face privation,want, and toil—death itself—with a laughin his teeth for the privilege of helping afriend—and who would fight to divide hislast ounce of bacon with his enemy. Fornot by rule of life—but life itself men liveupon the edges of the world, where littlelikes and hates are forgotten, and all standshoulder to shoulder against their commonenemy—the North! These were the menthe boy had known. And now, for the firsttime, he was confronted by another kind ofman—a man so yellow that, rather thanface the perils and hardships of the trail,

he had deserted those who had rescuedhim from a band of savages—and not onlydeserted, but had taken with him the onlymeans by which the others could hope toreach civilization, and had left a woundedman and a little boy to die in thewilderness—bushed!

The dull soul-hurt of the boy flashedinto swift anger and, flinging open thedoor, he shook a small fist toward thesouth.

"My dad followed British Kronk eighthundred miles through the snow before

he caught him—and then—you justwait."

"You cur!" he shouted. "You dirty cur!You piker! You think you've fixed us—butyou wait! They say my dad followed

British Kronk eight hundred miles throughthe snow before he caught him—and then—you just wait! You tried to starveWaseche!"

"Heah! Heah! What's all this?" askedthe man, who had raised himself to hiselbow upon the bunk. The boy faced him:

"He's beat it!" he choked. "He swipedMac's dogs and breezed!" for a momentthe man stared uncomprehendingly:

"Yo' mean O'Brien—he's gone?"

"Yes, he's gone! And so are the dogs,and the sled, and your rifle, and his robes,and his gold!"

"How about the grub?" asked Waseche."Did he take that, too?"

"Only about a third of it—he'stravelling light." For a fleeting instant theboy caught the gleam of Waseche's eyes,and then the gleam was gone and the man'slips smiled.

"Sho', now," he drawled. "Sho', now."The drawl was studied, and the voice waslow and very steady—too low and steady,thought the boy—and shivered.

"Neveh yo' mind, son. We-all ah allright. Jest yo' keep on a huntin' an' afetchin' in rabbits an' ptarmigan, an' suchlike, an' now the snow's hahdened, me'beyo'll get a crack at a moose oah a caribou.The heahd ort to pass somewhehs neahheah soon. We'll jest lay up heah an' waitfo' the break-up, an' then we'll build us araft an' go akitin' down to the Yukon—an'

then—" The voice suddenly hardened, andagain the gleam was in the grey eyes, butthe man ceased speaking abruptly.

"And then—what?" asked Connie, as hestudied his partner's face. The manlaughed.

"Why, then—then we-all c'n go back toTen Bow—to home! But, come now, le'seat breakfast. We-all got to go light on thegrub. Come on out of that, yo' li'l ol'tillicum, standin' theah in the do' shakin'yo' fist! Puts me in mind of a show I seenonct down to Skagway, in the operyhouse: Julia See's Ah, I rec'lect was thename of it, an' they was a lot of fist shakin'an' fancy speeches by the men, which theywas Greasers oah Dagoes that woahsheets wropped around 'em, 'stead of

pants an' shirts. They was one fellow,See's Ah, his name was—it was him theshow was about. Neah as we-all c'dfiggeh, he was a mighty good soht of apahty, a king oah pres'dent, oah somethin',an' he had a friend, name of Brutish, thathe'd done a heap fo', an' helped along, an'thought a heap of; an' anotheh friend nameof Mahk Antony. Well, seems like thisheah Brutish got soah at See's Ah, I didn'trightly get what fo'—but it don't make nodif'ence—anyhow, he got a fellow nameof Cashus, an' a couple mo' scoundrels an'they snuck up on See's Ah when he worn'tlookin' an' stabbed him in the back. It sho'made us mad, an' we-all yelled at See'sAh to look out, 'cause we seen 'emfingehin' theah knives in undeh theahsheets—but he didn't get what we was

drivin' at, an' when he did look it was toolate. We waited a spell while the showwent on, to see what Mahk Antony, See'sAh's otheh friend, w'd do to Brutish an' hisgang—but he jest hung around makin'fancy speeches an' such-like until we-allgot plumb disgusted." Waseche Billpaused until Connie, who had beenlistening eagerly, grew impatient.

"Well, what did he do?"

"Nawthin'," replied the man. "We doneit fo' him. Cou'se, it was only a show, an'they didn't really kill See's Ah, but we-alldidn't like the idee, an' so when we seenMahk didn't aim to do nawthin' but orate,we-all let a yell out of us an' run up theaisle an' clim' onto the stage an' grabbedBrutish an' Cashus an' Mahk Antony, too,

an' run 'em down an' chucked 'em into theLynn Canal. It was winteh, an' the watehwas cold, an' we soused 'em good an'propeh, an' when they got out they snuckonto theah boat an' we-all went back to theopery house an' got See's Ah, an' tuck himoveh to the hotel an' give him a rousin' bigsuppeh an' told him how we was all fo'him an' he c'd count on a squeah deal inSkagway every time. An' Grub Stake JohnBillin's give him a six-shooteh an' showedhim how he c'd hide it in undeh his sheetan' lay fo' 'em next time they snuck up onhim that-a-way. See's Ah thanked us allan' we walked down to the boat with himin case Brutish an' his gang aimed towaylay him. An' then he made us a finespeech an' went on up the gangwaylaughin' an' chucklin' fit to kill at the way

he'd suhprise them theah assinatehs nexttime they ondehtook to stick him in theback." Waseche Bill finished, and after along pause Connie asked:

"And O'Brien reminds you of Brutish?"

"Yes, son. An' I was jest a wondehin'what the boys'll do to him down in Eaglewhen they see Mac's dawgs, an' ask himhow come he to have 'em, an' wheah yo'an' me is at. Yo' see, son, Big Jim Sontagan' Joe an' Fiddle Face, an' a lot mo' of theboys was down to Skagway that night."

In the little cabin on the Kandik the daysdragged slowly by. Waseche's leg mendedslowly, and despite the boy's most carefulattention, remained swollen anddiscoloured. Connie hunted during every

minute of daylight that could be sparedfrom his camp duties, but game wasscarce, and although the boy trampedmiles and miles each day, his bag waspitifully small. A snowbird or a ptarmigannow and then fell to his rifle and he foundthat it required the utmost care to keepfrom blowing his game to atoms with thehigh-power rifle. How he longed for ashotgun or a twenty-two calibre rifle as hedragged himself wearily over the hardcrust of the snow. The cold weather haddriven the ground squirrels into their holesand even the rabbits stuck close to cover.The boy set snares made from an oldpiece of fishline, but the night-prowlingwolverines robbed them, as the line wastoo rotten for jerk snares.

The partners were reduced to one meala day, now, and that a very scanty one.Day after day the boy circled into thewoods, and day by day the circleshortened. He was growing weak, andwas forced often to rest, and the buckletongue of his belt rested in a knife slit farbeyond the last hole.

Tears stood in Waseche Bill's eyes aseach day he noted that the little face wasthinner and whiter than upon the precedingday, and that the little shoulders droopedlower as the boy returned from his huntand sat wearily down upon the floor topluck the feathers from a small snowbird.

On the morning of the tenth day, Conniebravely shouldered his rifle and with acheery "Good-bye, pardner" carefully

closed the door behind him. Old Boris,Mutt, and Slasher had managed to eke outa scant living by running rabbits at night,but they were little more than skin andbones, at best, and during the day layhuddled together in the sunshine near thecabin. As the boy passed out into the cold,clear air he noticed that the dogs weregone from their accustomed place.

"That's funny," he thought. "I wonder ifthey pulled out, too?" And then, as ifashamed of the thought, he jerked hisshoulders erect. "Not by a long shot!Those dogs will stick with us till the end!They are no pikers! They're tillicums!"

Suddenly, from far down the river,came a clear, bell-like howl, followed bya chorus of frantic yelps and savage

growls.

"My dogs!" cried the boy and, grippinghis rifle, made his way down the steepbank and out upon the hard crust of theriver. On and on he ran, in the direction ofthe sounds that came from beyond a sharp,wooded bend. The ice was slippery butuneven, and studded with sharp points offrozen snow that cut cruelly into his feetthrough the holes of his worn mukluks. Inhis weakened condition the effort was aserious drain upon the boy's strength, buthe kept on running, stumbling, slipping—and in more places than one his footstepswere marked by dark patches of red.Around the wooded bend he tore andthere, upon the smooth ice of a backwaterpool, stood a huge bull moose, which,

with lowered antlers and bristling mane,fought off the savage attacks of the threedogs. Again and again the dogs chargedthe great animal, whose hoofs slippedclumsily upon the ice with each movementof the huge body. Round and round theycircled, seeking a chance to dash in pastthose broad antlers, but with blazing eyesthe moose faced them, turning swiftly butawkwardly, as upon an uncentred pivot,while the breath whistled through hisdistended nostrils and spread into frozenplumes. So intent was the great beast uponthe attack of the dogs that he gave no heedto the small boy who gazed spellboundupon this battle of the wilds. For a longtime Connie stood, entirely forgetful of therifle that remained firmly clutched in hishands, and as he watched, a wave of

admiration and sympathy swept over himfor this huge monarch of the barren landsthat, in his own fastnesses, stood at bayagainst the gleaming white fangs of histormentors. Then into his brain leapedanother thought—here was meat! Half aton of good red meat that meant life to hisstarving partner, to himself, and to histhree beloved dogs. Slowly anddeliberately the boy dropped to his kneeand raised his rifle. The sights wavered tothe trembling of his hands and, summoningall the power that was in him, heconcentrated upon the steadying of hisaim.

Bang! The sound of the shot rang sharpand clear through the cold air, and themoose, with a loud snort, reared upward,

whirled, and fell crashing upon his side,while his powerful legs, with their sharphoofs, thrashed and clawed at the ice.Instantly Slasher was at his throat, and oldBoris and Mutt rushed blindly in, snappingand biting at the great, hairy body. Hastilyjamming a fresh cartridge into his barrel,Connie sprang forward, and with muzzleheld close, placed a finishing shot lowdown behind the point of the shoulder. Butthe strain upon his poorly nourished bodyhad been too great for the boy to stand.The long run down the river and theexcitement of the kill had taxed hisendurance to the limit. A strange weaknessseemed dragging at his limbs, pulling himdown, down, down into some vast,intangible depth. Mechanically he drewthe knife from its sheath and dragged

himself to the body of the moose, and then,suddenly, the world went dark, and heseemed to be whirling, easily and slowly,into a place of profound silence. Andalmost at the same moment, aroundanother

"Mechanically he drew the knife fromits sheath and dragged himself to the

body of the moose."

bend of the river, from the direction ofthe Yukon, dashed a long, tawny dog team,and another, and another, and with a wildyell of joy, O'Brien, red whiskers ablazein the sunlight, leaped from the foremostsled and gathered the unconscious form ofthe boy into his arms; while beside him,all talking at once and hampering eachother's movements in their frantic effortsto revive the boy, were Fiddle Face, andJoe, and Big Jim Sontag, and others of themen of Eagle.

Slowly Connie Morgan opened his eyesand gazed, puzzled, into the bearded faces

of the men of the North. His glance restedupon the face of O'Brien peering anxiouslyinto his own, and strayed to the dogs of theleading team—McDougall's dogs—and tothe sleds loaded with provisions, andthen, with the tears streaming from hiseyes, the boy struggled to his feet and asmall hand shot out and grasped the rough,hairy hand of O'Brien—the deserter whocame back!

CHAPTER XXIMISTER SQUIGG

It was a jovial gathering that crowdedthe little cabin on the Kandik where themen of the North feasted until far into thenight, and told tales, and listened towondrous adventures in the gold country.But most eagerly they listened to ConnieMorgan and Waseche Bill, with theirmarvellous tales of the Lillimuit—- andCarlson's cans of gold.

"We've a yarn worth the tellin' ourself!"exclaimed the man called Joe—the manwho tried to dissuade Waseche Bill and

prevent Connie Morgan from venturinginto the unknown. "Ye sh'd o' seen 'emcome! Flat on his belly a-top the sled—an'the dogs runnin' low an' true! A bunch ofus was watchin' the trail f'r Black JackDemaree an' the Ragged Falls mail: 'Herehe comes!' someone yells, an' way downthe river we seen a speck—a speck thatgrow'd until it was a dog team an' a man.Jeerushelam, but he was a-comin'!'Twornt no time till he was clost enough tosee 'twornt Black Jack. A cold day, it was—reg'lar bitin', nippin' cold—with thewind, an' the sweep o' the river. An' herecome the team on the high lope, an' a-whippin' along behind 'em, the lightestloaded outfit man ever seen hauled—jest aman, an' a blanket, an' two tomater cans.Flat, he laid—low to the sweep o' the

wind, one arm around the cans, an' theother a-holdin' onto the sled f'r all he wasworth. The man was O'Brien, yonder; an'up the bank he shot, fair burnin' the snow,whirled amongst us, an' piled the outfit upag'in' Big Jim's stockade. The nex' weknow'd was a yell from Fiddle Face, here:

"'It's McDougall's dogs!' An' before theIrishman c'd get onto his feet, Fiddle Facewas a-top him with a hand at his throat.'Where's the kid?' he howls in O'Brien'sear, 'Where's Sam Morgan's boy?' FiddleFace's voice ain't no gentle murmur—when he yells. But the rest of us didn'thear it—us that was ontanglin' the dogs.F'r, in the mix-up, the cover had come offone of them tomater cans, an' there on thesnow was nuggets o' gold—jest a-layin'

there dull an' yaller, in a heap on the top o'the snow." Joe paused, held a sputteringsulphur match to the bowl of his pipe, and,after a few deep puffs, continued: "Yeknow how the sight o' raw gold, that-a-way, gets to ye—when ye've put in thebest an' the hardest years o' yer life a-grubbin' an' a-gougin' f'r it? Ye know thefeelin' that comes all to onct about yer beltline, an' how yer head feels sort o' light,an' yer face burns, an' ye want to holler,an' laugh, an' cry all to onct? Well, thatwas us, a-standin' there by the stockade—all but Fiddle Face. Him an' O'Brien wasa-wallerin' grip-locked in the snow, an'Fiddle Face was a-hollerin' over an' overag'in: 'Where's that kid? Where's that kid?'an' all the while a-chokin' of O'Brien so'she couldn't answer. Presen'ly we noticed

'em an' drug 'em apart. An' right then everyman jack o' us forgot the gold. F'r, on asudden, we remembered that little kid—the gameness of him—an' how he'd giveus the slip an' took off alone into a countrywe didn't none o' us dast to go to—waylong in the fore part o' the winter. Wejerked O'Brien to his feet an' hustled himinto the hotel, an' by that time he'd gotback his wind, an' he was a-tellin', an' a-beggin' us not to lose no time, but to packa outfit an' hit f'r a little cabin on theKandik. 'He's there!' he hollers. 'An' hispardner, too! They're starvin'. I've got thegold to pay f'r the grub—take it! Take itall! Only git back to 'em! I know'd we allcouldn't make it, travellin' heavy an' slowwith the outfit an' a crippled man to boot.'

"Big Jim Sontag goes out an' scoops upthe gold where it laid forgot—an' then hecomes back into the room an' walksstraight over to where O'Brien was a-standin': 'We'll go!' says Jim, 'an' you'llgo, too! An', if there's a cabin, like yousay, an' they're there, why you can't spendno gold in Eagle!' Jim steps closter—soclost that his nose stops within two inchesof O'Brien's, an' his eyes a-borin' cleanthrough to the back of O'Brien's head: 'Butif they ain't there,' he says, low an' quietlike, 'then you don't spend no gold inEagle, neither—see?' An' then Jim turnsto us: 'Who'll go 'long?' he hollers. 'Thatthere boy is Sam Morgan's boy—we allknow'd Sam Morgan!' We sure did—an'we like to tore Jim's roof off a-signifyin'.Then, we slung our outfits together an' hit

the trail. An' now, boys," Joe rose to hisfeet and crossed to the bunk where theIrishman sat between Connie and WasecheBill, "it's up to us to signify onct more."And, for the first time in his life, O'Brien,whose lot in the world had always beenan obscure and a lowly one, came to knowsomething of what it meant to have earnedthe regard of men!

The journey down the Kandik wasuneventful, and four days later thereinforced outfit camped at the junction ofthe lesser river with the mighty Yukon.Late that night the men of the North satabout the camp fire and their talk was ofrich strikes, and stampedes, and theunsung deeds of men.

Connie Morgan listened with bated

breath to tales of his father. Waseche Billlearned from the lips of the men of Eagleof the boy's escape from the hotel, and ofhis dash for the Lillimuit that ended, so faras the men who followed were concerned,at the foot of the snow-piled Tatondukdivide. And the men of Eagle learned ofthe Lillimuit, and the white Indians, and ofthe death of Carlson, and lastly, of theIgnatook, the steaming creek with its floorof gold.

"An' we-all ah goin' back theah,sometime," concluded Waseche. "Me an'the kid, heah, an' O'Brien, if he'll go—"To their surprise, O'Brien leaped to hisfeet:

"Ye c'n count me in!" he cried. "Foivedays agone no power on earth c'd av dhrug

me back into that land av th' cheerlesscowld. But, now, 'tis dif'runt, an' if th' sunshoines war-rum enough f'r th' loikes avye—an' th' b'y, here—phy, ut shoines war-rum enough f'r Pathrick O'Brien—av utriver shoines at all."

"That's what I call a man!" yelledFiddle Face, and subsided instantly, forWaseche Bill was speaking.

"As I was goin' on to say: with us willbe some of the boys from Ten Bow—McDougall, an' Dutch Henery, an' DickColton, an' Scotty McCollough, an' BlackJack Demaree from Ragged Falls, an'—well, how about it, boys? The gold istheah, an' me an' the kid, we aim to let ouhfrien's in on this heah strike. We'll sho' beproud to have yo'-all jine us." With a loud

cheer, the men accepted Waseche'sinvitation—they had seen O'Brien's gold.

"Jes' keep it undeh yo' hats till the timecomes," cautioned Waseche. "We-all willslip yo'-all the wehd, an' we don't want notinhawns, noah chechakos, noah pikehsalong, 'cause the Ignatook stampede isgoin' to be a stampede of tillicums!"

In the morning the partners,accompanied by O'Brien, said good-byeto the men of Eagle and headed down thegreat river for the mouth of the Ten Bow.On the third day, only a short distanceabove the place where the Ten Bow trailswerved from the Yukon between twohigh bluffs, they came upon the camp of anIndian. The red man was travelling light.He had just come out of the hills, and with

him were Waseche Bill's dogs—themalamutes whose sudden stampede hadled the lost wayfarers through the narrowpass to the crest of the Kandik divide, and—Alaska!

"Wheah'd yo' get them dawgs?" askedWaseche, pointing to the malamutes. TheIndian waved his arm in the direction ofthe hills, and Waseche nodded:

"Them's my dawgs—nika komooks."

The Indian scowled and shook his head.

"Dem Pete Mateese dog," he gruntedsurlily.

"Pete Mateese!" cried Connie. "Do youknow Pete Mateese? Who is he? Where ishe? We want to find him."

The Indian glowered sullenly.

"W'at y'u wan' Pete Mateese?" heasked.

"We want to find him. We've got goodnews for him. He's rich—plenty gold." Atthe words the Indian laughed—not amirthful laugh, but a sneering, sardoniclaugh of unbelief.

"White man beeg liar—all. PeteMateese, she Injun—breed. White man notell Injun 'bout gol'. Me'be so white mansteal Injun gol'."

With Irish impetuosity, O'Brien leapedforward.

"Take thot back, ye rid shpalpeen!" hecried, shaking a huge fist under the

Indian's nose. "Av ye say wan more wor-rd ag'in' th' b'y, Oi'll choke th' gizzard outav ye befoor ye say ut!"

Waseche Bill held up a restraininghand.

"Take it easy, O'Brien, don't le'snobody huht anybody. Le's get the straightof this heah. Primary an' fo'most, we-allwant to find out if Pete Mateese pulledout on Carlson, oah, did he aim to goback." At the mention of Carlson's namethe Indian turned quickly toward Waseche.

"Y'u know Carlson?" he asked.Waseche Bill nodded.

"Yeh, I did know him."

"Wher' Carlson?"

"Dead." As Waseche pronounced theword the Indian shook his head sadly.

"Carlson good white man. All goodwhite man dead. Sam Morgan, she dead,too."

"Sam Morgan!" exclaimed Connie."What do you know of Sam Morgan?"

"Sam Morgan good to Injun. Me—mos'die, once—fi', seex winter 'go, in de beegsnow. Sam Morgan com' 'long. Hav' onesmall piece bacon—one small lump suet—eighteen mile—Hesitation. Me—I gotno grub. Fi', seex day I ain' got no grub.Seek lak leetle baby. Sam Morgan, shemak' me eat—sam' lak heem. Den shepeek me oop an' car' me—all night—allday. Nex' night, me'be so we no mak'. See

de light in leetle cabin, an' den we com'Hesitation. Bot' of us, we pret' near die.An' Sam Morgan, she laugh." The oldIndian paused and regarded the boycuriously: "Y'u know Sam Morgan?" heasked. The boy's eyes were very bright,and he cleared his throat huskily.

"Sam Morgan was my father," he said,in a low, unsteady tone. The Indian stalkedto the boy and, pausing directly beforehim, lifted the small chin and gazed longand searchingly into the upturned greyeyes.

"Uh-huh," he grunted, "y'u Sam Morganboy. Me hear 'bout y'u in Ten Bow."

"Where is Pete Mateese?" persistedConnie. The Indian no longer hesitated.

"Pete Mateese, she Ten Bow. Workhard for de money to buy grub an' tak'back to Carlson—way back, pas' dedivide, in de lan' of Niju Tah—de lan' ofde bad man, dead. But, she don' git nomoney. Meestaire Squeeg, she cheat PeteMateese."

"Who is Misteh Squigg?" askedWaseche Bill.

"Meestaire Squeeg she leetle man. Gotde nose lak de fox, an' de bad eye lak' desnake. All tam he mak' Pete Mateese workver' mooch. Tell heem, he mak' plent'money. But she no giv' heem no money—always Pete Mateese got it comin'—shegot to wait. Som' day Meestaire Squeegshe pull out—den Pete Mateese gotnut'in."

"Yo' say he's a li'l slit-eyed runt—rat-faced—with a squeaky voice?" Wasechemimicked Mr. Squigg's tone. The Indiannodded emphatically, and for a long timeWaseche was silent—thinking.

"An' yo' say these heah is PeteMateese's dawgs?" Again the Indiannodded, and Waseche Bill's eyesnarrowed: "An' yo' say they ah in TenBow—Pete Mateese an' this heah MistehSquigg?"

"Ten Bow," repeated the Indian."Meestaire Squeeg, she tak' de gol' an' buyde claim." Waseche Bill turned to theothers:

"Come on, we'll hit the trail!" And then,to the Indian, "Yo' come, too, an' fetch

them dawgs." Connie noticed that his bigpartner's voice was very low, and once,turning quickly, he surprised the cold,hard gleam in the grey eyes.

"He must be the same man that tried tomake me give up my claim, the time I beatout the Ten Bow stampede," confided theboy, as he mushed beside Waseche's sled.

"Oh, he did—did he?" asked the man, inthe same low, hard tone. "We'll jest countthat in, too."

"What do you mean? Do you know Mr.Squigg?"

"No. But I will," drawled Waseche."Yo' see, kid, he's the man I bought themdawgs off of last fall in Eagle. Come

along, now, le's mush. I'm gettin' plumbanxious to meet up with this heah MistehSquigg."

CHAPTER XXIITHE MAN WHO DIDN'T FIT

The return of Connie Morgan andWaseche Bill to Ten Bow, and the eventsthat followed, are told to this day on thetrails.

McDougall paused for a chat withDutch Henry beside the long black dumpof the German's claim.

"It's most time for the break-up, Mac,"said the owner of the dump. "We'll sluiceout big, this spring."

"Yes, mon, we will," agreed

McDougall, as his eyes roved to the smallsnow-covered dump across the creek."But, it's sore I've hated to see yon claimidle the winter—an' the laddie gaen—an'Waseche Bill—heaven knaws wheer.D'ye mind what the mon fr' Eagle told,how the lad c'd na be stopped, but trailedon after Waseche* *—on to the Lillimuit?They'll na com' back." Dutch Henrynodded.

"Sure, Mac, but whad' ye 'spect fromthe breed of Sam Morgan? 'Member howhe beat us all to these here diggin's, withondly them three old dogs. I'd give myclaim to have 'em safe back. An' I'm sorryyou lost your ten-team, too, Mac."

"Losh! Mon! 'Tis na'thing at a'—thedogs! The laddie tuk 'em—an' welcome.

Ye sh'd o' seed the luk i' his e'e, themornin' he com' bustin' into my cabin wi'the news that Waseche was gaen! 'I'll fetchhim back,' he says, 'if I have to beat himup'—an' him na bigger'n a pint o' cider.They've gaen to the Lillimuit, Dutch, an''taint in reason they'll com' back. But,sometimes, when I think o' the luk i' theladdie's e'e, d'ye knaw, it comes to methat, me'be—" The man's voice trailedinto silence as his gaze became fixed uponthe moving black specks that appeared fardown the Yukon trail. Dutch Henry's gazefollowed the big Scotchman's.

"Look, Mac! Look!" he cried excitedly."Them dogs!" And, almost at the sameinstant, with a roar like the bellow of abull, McDougall sprang down the trail

between the straggling cabins of Ten Bow,with Dutch Henry pounding along in hiswake. Before the two had covered half thelength of the camp other men joined them,running and yelling—though they knew notwhy they ran. Cabins and shafts weredeserted and all Ten Bow strung out onthe trail to meet the rapidly approachingdog teams. And when they did meet, ahalf-mile beyond the camp, Connie wasrushed from his feet by the wildly yellingcrowd and carried triumphantly into TenBow upon the broad shoulders of the bigmen of the North. For, as McDougall hadsaid, word had come down from Eagle,and now, not because he was SamMorgan's boy, but for his own grit andpluck and courage, Connie Morgan hadwon his place among the sourdoughs of

the silent land.

"Know a man name of Misteh Squigg?"asked Waseche Bill of McDougall, as halfa dozen men sat late that night about thestove in the little cabin that had laindeserted all through the winter.

"Yes, I ken the mon—an' na gude o'him, neither, wi' his leetle shifty e'en. I'vemistrusted um fr' the time I furst seed um.D'ye ken, laddie, t'was him tried to driveye fr' yer claim wi' his lawyer's drivvle,whilst Waseche was down to Hesitation?"Connie nodded, and McDougallcontinued: "I sent him about his business i'jig time, an' na more was he seed i' TenBow till a matter o' three or four monthsagane up he pops wi' a half-breed that'sworkin' f'r um. He bought Dave

Crampton's claim an' has be'n workin' utsince. Why d'ye ask?" For answerWaseche motioned to the Indian who satupon his blanket spread upon the floor:

"Kobuk, go fetch Pete Mateese. An'don't let Misteh Squigg know yo' fetchin'him." The Indian arose and passednoiselessly out into the night. A quarter ofan hour later he returned, closely followedby a huge half-breed with mild, ox-likeeyes, who smiled broadly upon theassembly.

"Heem Pete Mateese," grunted theIndian, and sank again to his blanket.Waseche Bill regarded the big, simple-minded half-breed intently, and thenflashed the question:

"Wheah is Carlson?" Instantly the smilefaded from the man's face and a look ofdeep sorrow darkened his eyes.

"Lillimuit," he answered, sadly. "OnIgnatook he dig for de gol'." The half-breed looked about him upon the faces ofthe men who wondered what it was allabout.

"Go on," encouraged Waseche, "tellmore."

"De Ignatook, she don' freeze—shewa'm. De white Injun, she don' go dare—she 'fraid. We go dare, me an' Carlson,she ma pardner, an' she say de gol' eeshere. Bimby, de grub git low an' Carlsonsen' me for more. Dat two winter ago. Itak' de gol' een one can an' I mak' eet

t'rough to Eagle by Tatonduk divide. Den Isee Meestaire Squeeg. He say he tak' degol' an' buy de grub so I not git cheat. Denshe los' de gol'. She ver' sorry, an' she sayy'u com' work for me, fi' dollaire a day an'grub, an' pret' soon y'u mak' 'nough to goback to y'u pardner. Meestaire Squeeg,she buy my dog—feefty dollaire apiece—four hunder' dollaire—an' she say shekeep de money so I no los'—I no git cheat.An' she say de money she hav' eentrees',ten p'cent. So me, I go 'long an' work forheem an' we clean oop good on TurtleCreek. Den we com' Ten Bow an'Meestaire Squeeg, she buy de claim, an' Isay I lak de money now, I got 'nough. I tak'de grub to Carlson. But Meestaire Squeegshe say, no, y'u ain't got no money—deeentrees' she eat dat money all oop. She

count oop fas', ten p'cent, she say. So Iwork som' more, but all de tam deeentrees' she eat me oop. Eef eet ain't forde eentrees' I mak' 'nough to tak' de grub toCarlson."

The big men and the one small boy inthe little cabin listened intently to the half-breed's simply told tale. When he finishedWaseche Bill cleared his throat andglanced from one to the other of the silentlisteners.

"Between them walked a little, rat-faced man. The man was Mr. Squigg."

"Boys," he said, "Carlson is dead. Hedied alone—way out yondeh in theLillimuit. He died huntin' fo' PeteMateese, his pahdneh that didn't come

back. Befo' he died he found the gold heknow'd was theah. We seen the gold, an'it's cached theah yet, jest wheah he doneleft it. Carlson was a man. If Pete Mateesehad went back, he'd of be'n livin' now. An'Pete Mateese would of went back if he'dof be'n let alone." He ceased speakingand, without a word, Big McDougall andDick Colton rose from their chairs andpassed out into the night. The little clockticked monotonously while the otherswaited. Presently the two returned, andbetween them walked a little, rat-facedman. The man was Mr. Squigg, and as heentered, his slit-like eyes blinked rapidlyin the lamp-light, and shot nervous,venomous glances upon the faces of theoccupants of the cabin. At sight of PeteMateese his face flushed, then paled, and

his thin lips curled backward from histeeth.

"What you doin' here?" he rasped.

"He was sent fo', Misteh Squigg, sameas yo' was," drawled Waseche Bill.

"This is an outrage!" squeaked the man."Who are you? And what right have yougot to bring folks here against their will?"

"Who, me? Oh, I'm Waseche Bill. I jestwanted fo' to meet up with yo'—that's all.Yo' name fits yo' like a new glove, don'tit, Misteh Squigg? An', Misteh Squigg, thisheah's my pahdneh, Connie Mo'gan. I jestheahd how yo' tried fo' to beat him out ofthis heah claim, back when he beat out thestampede."

"He's a minor, an' he can't hold noclaim," whimpered the man; "I'm alawyer, an' I know. But that was a longwhile ago. I'll let that pass."

"Sho' now, Misteh Squigg," Wasechedrawled, "it's good of yo' to let that pass.We was feared yo' mout of laid it upagainst yo'self. But theah's anotheh li'lmatteh we-all would like to cleah up befo'the evenin's oveh. Yo' rec'lect I'm thepahty that bought them dawgs off yo' inEagle—but we'll come to that lateh. Thisheah Pete Mateese, now, the's sev'el li'litems we-all want the straight of. Fust off,wheah's the can of gold Pete Mateese giveyo' to buy grub with in Eagle?"

"It's none of your business!" shrilled theman. "Besides, it's a lie! I didn't see no

gold. Let me out of here! You ain't got noright to hold me."

"Ain't we? Well, Misteh Squigg, yo'might's well know yo' ah undeh arrest, an'we-all aim to give yo' a faih an' speedytrial."

"Yo u can't arrest me!" squealed theman.

"But, we done it—didn't we? If yo'don't b'lieve it, jest yo' try to walk out thatdo'."

"You ain't got no authority! It ain'taccordin' to law!"

"This heah ain't exactly a co'te of law—it's a co'te of justice. They's quite acon'sid'ble dif'ence—mostly," answered

Waseche, and turning to Connie, he said.

"Jest get out yo' pen, kid, an' set downthe figgehs so we c'n get things faih an'squah. One can of gold, nine thousanddollahs. Now, them dawgs—they waseight dawgs at fifty dollahs a head, that'sfo' hund'ed dollahs mo'."

"I object!" piped Mr. Squigg, "I'm alawyer, an' I know——"

"Yo' mout be a lawyeh, Misteh Squigg,but yo' ain't in no shape to 'bject—notnone serious. Now, them wages owin' toPete Mateese, neah's we c'n calc'late, it'sfo'teen months at five dollahs a day.Figgeh it up, kid, an' set it down." Conniebusied himself over his paper.

"That comes to twenty-one hundreddollars," he announced.

"It ain't true! I didn't agree to pay him!You can't prove it! I deny everything!"

"Yo' ain't b'lieved," calmly drawledWaseche. "How much yo got downaltogetheh, son?"

"Eleven thousand five hundred dollars."

"Now, theah's this heah int'rest. Ten pehcent, wornt it, Misteh Squigg?" But Mr.Squigg only growled.

"Twelve thousand six hundred and fifty,all told," computed Connie. Wasecheturned to the infuriated Mr. Squigg.

"That's what's owin' to Pete Mateese.

C'n yo' pay it—now?"

"No, I can't! An' I never will! Yo' can'tenforce no such high-handed proceedin's!It ain't accordin' to law!"

"It's accordin' to Ten Bow, though,"answered Waseche, shortly. "An' seein' yoain' got the cash oah the dust, we-all'll jesttrouble yo' to make oveh yo' claim to PeteMateese. An' bein' yo' only give tenthousan' fo' it, yo' c'n give yo' note fo' thebalance. Give him the pen, son."

"I won't do it! This is an outrage!"whined the man.

"Sho', now, Misteh Squigg, co'se yo'lldo it." Waseche Bill turned to the others."We-all will give Misteh Squigg five

minutes to think it oveh. Then some of yo'boys jest amble out an' tell it around camp—the story of Carlson, the man that died'cause his pahdneh couldn't go back. Theboys'll be right int'rested, 'cause a lot of'em know'd Carlson, an' they liked him.Mos' likely they'll call a meetin' an'——"

"Gi' me the pen! Gi' me the pen!"shrieked Mr. Squigg, whose face had gonepasty white. And the men saw that thehand that held the pen trembled violently.

"Now, Misteh Squigg," announcedWaseche, when the other had finished,"yo' git! An' if yo' know what's good fo'yo', yo'll keep on gittin'! Alaska don'tneed such men as yo'. Yo' don't fit! Thisheah's a big country, Misteh Squigg. It'sbroad, an' long, an' clean. An' the men that

live in it ah rough men, but theah heahts isas big as the country. An' they ah men thatstand fo'-squah with each otheh, an' withthe wo'ld. In Alaska a man c'n count onfaih play, an' it don't make no dif'ence ifhis hide is white, oah red, oah yallah, oahblack. 'Cause he ain't measu'ed acco'din'to colah noah heft, noah by the gold in hispoke, neitheh. It's what a man does thatcounts. The li'l eveh-day acts an' deedsthat shows wheah his heaht is—an' what'sin him. An', now, Misteh Squigg, yondeh'sthe do'. An' beyond, the trail stretchesaway—an' fah away. Eveh mile yo' putbetween yo'self an Ten Bow is a friend ofyo'n. Me'be somewheahs theah's a placeli'l enough fo' a man with a heaht as small,an' hahd, an' black as a double B shot. Ifthey is, an' yo' c'n find it, yo'll be home.

But don't stop to hunt fo' it in Alaska—itain't heah." As Waseche Bill finished, thedoor opened and, without a word, Mr.Squigg slunk into the star-lit night—thesoftly radiant night that brushedcaressingly the white snows of AuroraLand.

"Squigg slunk into the star-lit night."

Late the men of Ten Bow talked aboutthe little stove. At last, when they arose togo, Big McDougall stepped close toConnie's side.

"Laddie," he said, "wad ye do a favourf'r an auld mon—jest the ain time?"

"What!" exclaimed the boy, and hiseyes shone, "do a favour for you! For theman that lent me the best dog-team in allAlaska! Why, if it hadn't been for yourdogs, Mac, I could never have foundWaseche. Just name it, and you'll see!"

"Weel spoken, lad! Spoken like a mon!"The Scot's eyes twinkled. "An' I'll hold yeto yer word. The favour is this: that ye'llaccept the ten-team o' malamutes that'scarried ye so far acrost unmapped miles,as a present fr' an auld mon whose heartthinks more o' ye than his rough auldtongue c'n tell." The boy stared speechlessat the big, smiling man. And when, atlength, he found his voice, the wordschoked in his throat:

"But—you said—it was a favour, Mac—I——"

"Wheest, laddie, an' a favour it is. ForMcDougall's growin' auld f'r the trails.Theer's gude years ahead o' yon dogs, butI've na mind to gi' 'em the wark they needto keep 'em in fettle. An' dogs is

oncommon like men—'gin they loaf abootthe streets o' town a spell they get lazy an'no 'count. But, wi' yersel' to put 'em owerthe trail noo an' again, they'll be a team o'pleasure an' profit to ye. F'r they're brawdogs altogether an' t'would be shamefu'they should dwindle to the common herdo' scavage dogs."

And so, Connie, gracefully as he couldin his confusion, granted McDougall'sfavour. But in doing so the small boycould not foresee—nor could any man inthe cabin foresee—the chain of adventuresinto which the possession of the ten-teamwould lead him. For, had he not ownedthe ten-team, he would not have happened,just at the right moment, upon Big DanMcKeever, sergeant of the Royal North-

West Mounted Police, at a time when thesergeant, with white, set face, battledagainst odds of a thousand to one, whilefifty men looked helplessly out across themile-wide field of heaving, crashing riverice when the spring break-up hit themighty Yukon. And, if Sergeant McKeever—but all that has no part in this story.

In the little cabin on Ten Bow the hourwas late, and the bearded men had arisento go. As each passed through the door toseek his own cabin, he gripped hard thehand of Pete Mateese, and O'Brien, andWaseche Bill—and both hands of ConnieMorgan—the boy who was a tillicum.

As they wended their way homeward inthe midnight the little stars winked andglittered radiantly upon these big men of

the North. While far away on the longbleak trail, the same little stars gleamedcold and hard upon a swiftly moving blackspeck where, with white face and terror-gripped heart, Mr. Squigg added friendlymiles to the distance that separated TenBow from The Man Who Didn't Fit.

Transcriber's Notes:

Maintained originalspelling and

punctuation of thedialect.

Obvious printer

errors have beencorrected.

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