"It looks likely country," said Campbell, "and I shouldn't wonder if that glacier has worn down quite a lot of gold."

We were not long in pitching our tents and building several fires to thaw off the icicles that clung to our faces; then we felt much more enthusiastic over our prospects. The timber was plentiful, and close at hand; we were far indeed from the madding crowd.

"We'll make a start, boys," I said; "we'll see whether old Leather-skin spoke correctly."

My two companions were rather disconsolately surveying the scene.

"Too much gold!" muttered Mac in derision. "No vera likely. It wad tak' hundreds o' thoosands o' pounds tae pey me fur ma sufferin's in this God-forsaken country."

All day long we kept great logs burning over the frozen gravel silted up on the edge of the channel. Slowly we excavated the "dirt" in fragments, picking energetically at it after each fire had been cleared away. The icy body of the creek had evidently long since been formed, for not a drop of water flowed beneath; and after sinking a few feet we came to a level where the frozen mass contracted from the old river-bed, leaving a clear dry space in which a man could almost stand upright. We at once abandoned our shaft, and crawled into the strange cavern formed. The gravel over which the torrent had flowed was dry, and hard as flint. We had reached bedrock on the true channel of the stream, and with water still flowing overhead! A yet unfrozen fluid gurgled in the heart of the great ice column above; the effect was wonderfully beautiful.

"I guess we'll stick to the shaft, boys," said Mackay; "this looks uncanny," and he scrambled out; the idea of working underneath the flowing stream was too much for him, though he was a veteran miner. Campbell and I soon followed his example, leaving Mac and Stewart, who were not easily daunted, to survey the wonders of Nature at their leisure. They at once commenced picking the frozen channel, and the thud! thud! of the blows came to our ears, as we stood by the fire above, as the sonorous notes of a deep-toned bell. Already the murky gloom of an Alaskan night was fast closing over, though it was yet but two o'clock in the afternoon. Thud! thud! thud! went the pickaxes below, and I marvelled at the persistence of my companions, for I knew they could make little impression on the flinty sands.

Suddenly the echoes ceased, and the sounds of a wordy altercation rumbled up towards us; a few minutes later Mac popped his head out of the shaft and beckoned me mysteriously, then disappeared again. Wonderingly I let myself down through the narrow aperture and wriggled into the cavern. A strange sight met my gaze. A lighted stump of candle was stuck in the ground, and its pale light, reflected against the glistening roof, gave the scene a somewhat unearthly appearance. Stewart was kneeling on the gravel, examining carefully a flat, pebble-shaped stone; beside him was heaped quite a number of similar fragments, and these were evidently the results of my companions' labours, for many hollows in the channel showed where the pebbles had been extracted. When I entered, Mac was feverishly rubbing one of the pieces against his moccasined leg.

"What kind o' stane dae ye ca' that?" he asked eagerly, handing his prize to me.

"I've tell't him it's ironstane," broke in Stewart in a convinced tone of voice, "but Mac aye likes tae be contrairy."

The specimen given me was a rough and rusty-looking pebble, very much water-worn. At first glance it certainly looked like ironstone, and its weight proved it to be either of that nature or—I dared not hoped the alternative. I took my sheath knife and endeavoured to scrape the edges, but they were hard as flint.

"A kent it was ironstane," grumbled Stewart, yet I was not satisfied. I held the specimen close to the candle-flame for several minutes until it was heated throughout, then I again tried my knife on the edges. The effect was astounding; the rusty iron coat peeled off as mud, and lo! a nugget of shining gold was brought to view.

With a howl of delight Stewart started up, cracking his head against the crystal ceiling in his haste. " Gold!" he shouted, and grabbed at the handful of stones he had collected. "Mak' some mair," he said.

But there was no need to doubt further; every rusty-coloured pebble unearthed was in truth a fine alluvial specimen of the precious metal, and when scraped each tallied in every characteristic with King James's nugget. The iron coating was but a frozen mud cement which had formed over the irregularities of surface with vice-like tenacity. The bed of the creek was indeed gold bottomed; the King had not stated wrongly.

Campbell and Mackay soon joined us; they had become alarmed at my prolonged absence.

"This beats Bonanza and El Dorado hollow," was the first individual's comment.

"Well, I'm jiggered!" feebly murmured Mackay, gazing blinkingly around.

The light danced and shone on the yellow fragments, and sparkled on the crystal dome. The sight was truly gorgeous. Even the fabled Aladdin's cave could hardly have surpassed the splendours of that Alaskan icy vault.

It was plain to us that the depth of "pay gravel" could not be more than a few inches at most; the steep declivity of the channel was a sure proof of that fact, and our "find" would not, therefore, take long to work out. It promised, however, to be the richest strike in the Klondike valley. The gold being so close to the mother lode, which was, unfortunately, covered by the glacier, was all of a coarse nature; none of the pieces collected came under the pennyweight limit, and one specimen we computed to be at least five ounces....

Such is the record of one of our prospecting trips to the glacier streams of the Upper Klondike, and "Gold Bottom Creek" from that time occupied an honoured place in every miner's reference book.

THE PERILS OF THE TRAIL

All through that dread winter no news reached civilisation from the frozen El Dorado, no communication had been established with the great mushroom city of the far Nor'-West, and only the wildest sort of speculation could be indulged in as to the fate of the pioneer inhabitants of the Klondike valley. Only too late was the knowledge forced upon the almost fanatical gold-seekers that the iron grip of an Arctic winter was upon them, effectually barring retreat and sealing the narrow gates of the country against all further expeditions from the outside. They had lived on in the steadfast belief that the "Great American nation" would send in supplies in good time to prevent any likelihood of starvation. But so ignorant was the world regarding the nature of the northern land that many companies continued even at that time in Seattle and San Francisco to outline in the press their plans for sending stores to Dawson in the "coming" winter—this in November, when the elements had already a vice-like grip of the country.

Several expeditions really started, but so ludicrous were their equipments that they without exception failed to penetrate beyond the coastal barriers—the grim old Chilcoot and the murderous Skagway trail.

And so in the "promised land" the chill November blasts were hushed and the deadly quiet of a December frost reigned supreme. The majority of the miners worked out on the creeks, but when the intense cold forced them to cease their labours they flocked into Dawson and idly frequented the saloons, bragging of their riches to their less favoured comrades, and cursing the ungodly nature of the country in forcible language.

At this time very few had more than three months' provisions, and the majority were at their last bag of flour. The stores would sell nothing unless at fabulous prices. Everything commanded one dollar a pound. Even salt, that cheap but necessary commodity, had the same value. Baking powder was unpurchasable—there being none. Before long one hundred dollars was offered and refused for a sack of rolled oats. The restaurants for a time supplied "meals" at exorbitant charges, yet one by one they had to give out for want of supplies. The end came when seven dollars was asked and given freely for a meagre portion of bacon and beans—the staple food of the Arctics. Only a few days did this establishment—"Dawson's Last Hope"—hold out, and then the familiar legend, "No supplies," was posted on the logged doorway. It was only then that the real state of affairs was impressed upon the unthinking people.

Many tragedies were enacted in that northern mining camp during the weeks that followed. A kind of panic prevailed. Short rations was the rule, and starvation only too frequent. There seemed nothing but death ahead for all. On short rations, with the thermometer averaging forty-five below zero! who could view such a prospect with equanimity? Thefts of goods were often attempted, and almost invariably death by revolver bullet was the end of the poor hungry would-be thief's career, for the necessaries of life were more strictly guarded than gold. Gold could not buy them. Many would have given their all gladly for a sack of flour. Long before Christmas all work was suspended. The population took to their log-huts, and barricaded every nook and cranny in vain endeavour to keep out the cold. Daylight appeared at ten o'clock in the morning, and night closed over the camp soon after three. The "city" seemed deserted, all but for the presence of a few dog-sleighs, which were constantly employed in carrying timber from the mountain-side. The strong men who had dared the elements and dragged the gold from the unwilling soil now gave way utterly. The keen air whetting their appetites rendered their existence on short rations a long-drawn-out agony. The weaker element soon fell ill, and then a reign of terror began. Fever became prevalent, and the little cemetery soon had to be extended to accommodate the many victims to its fury.

A "roll-up" of the miners was by unanimous consent held to reason out the dangerous situation, and it was decided as a last desperate resource to attempt the long overland route to Dyea across the treacherous Chilcoot Pass. Until the arrival of my party over the ice none had dreamed that such a journey was practicable. During the heart of an Arctic winter, to march seven hundred miles over ice and unfathomed snows! The idea seemed absurd, yet it now became the only hope of life to all. That "roll-up" is pictured clearly before me now, and never again do I expect to be present at a more cruelly dramatic gathering. Starvation showed plainly on every face; each white frosted visage was seamed and furrowed as if by a load of care. They were indeed a motley crowd, comprising representatives of all nationalities. To me fell the questionable honour of leadership. I was supposed to know the valley of the Yukon better than any present, nearly all of whom had entered by way of St. Michael's.

"All right, boys," I said, in answer to their request, "my party will make the trail for you as far as Big Salmon River. Then Major Walsh may be able to advise us what to do."

And so the strange company began its long and deadly march. Half a dozen dog teams headed the column, after which came men pulling their own sleighs, and at the rear wearily trudged the multitude who carried their all in packs bound with straps to their shoulders. It was a strange and pitiable spectacle at the start; what would it be at the finish?

The Stewart River was reached in four days, and here the "blown" ice was almost insurmountable. It piled up in great blistering sheets, the elevations in some places exceeding a height of twenty feet. Over these obstacles the dog-sleighs crashed, breaking a way for the long trailing human caravan. Moccasins were cut into shreds, and clothing soon became tattered and torn. The thermometer had now dropped to fifty degrees below zero, and many became frost-bitten. Not a few lost the use of their arms, and marble-hued noses were common indeed.

Sometimes I would get well ahead of the main party, and from a convenient point watched them approach and pass. A stranger sight could not be imagined. The staggering line of dogs came first; over their lowered heads the long whips cracked, and the poor brutes bounded forward with nerve and life in every motion. Then the weary sleigh-pullers passed in solemn array, shoulders bent and bodies leaning forward. Their sleighs were pulled along to the accompaniment of the harsh grinding sound emitted from the iron runners on the frozen snow. Lastly, the "packers" straggled in Indian file, and they were surely a sight to be viewed with mingled feelings. Tall men, short men, stout men—and they were few—and thin men followed in miscellaneous order. Some were lame, and limped painfully; some had their heads bandaged, many wore nose coverings, and a few were minus the nose altogether. Strange it was to see at intervals, when this almost weird procession lagged to the rear, how strenuously they would endeavour to recover ground, and when with one accord they broke into a run the spectacle offered would have been laughable had it not been so seriously, so truly a race for life.

Salmon River was reached at last. Five men had died on the trail and two were seriously ill, though they dragged themselves along, helped occasionally by the dog-sleighs. Here I formally gave over my responsible charge to Campbell and Mackay, and having been entrusted with mails and despatches for the coast, with barely a halt pushed on ahead with Mac and Stewart. Our stores had diminished greatly beyond my calculations, and it was evident that an extreme effort must be made to increase our rate of travel. Yet despite our utmost endeavours, when we entered upon the snowy wastes of Marsh Lake we pulled a sleigh on which reposed a few furs, a bag of mineral specimens, and about as much flour as would make one good square meal.

For the last several days our progress had been severely hampered by the increasing depth and softness of the snow filling the valley of the Yukon as we approached nearer the dreaded pass. Our daily march since leaving the northern capital had rarely fallen below twenty-eight miles, until the unfrozen White Horse Rapids had stayed our advance and caused us to make a wide détour; but now, do what we might in our semi-famished condition, we could barely travel twenty miles in as many hours, and full eighty miles yet intervened between us and the sea. On this day we had been on the trail since sunrise, and the darkening shadows of night were already beginning to creep over the billowy wastes, though it was but two hours after noon.

"We are near the end of the lake, boys," I shouted encouragingly, as I noticed the failing efforts of my companions. "We must try and reach Tagash River to-night."

Mac groaned dismally, and Dave emitted a plaintive howl as he struggled in his harness. Then Stewart, who had grown wofully cadaverous of late, stopped and addressed his compatriot.

"I mind, Mac," said he, "that there used to be an Injun village aboot here."

"I hae a disteenct recollection o' the place," returned Mac shortly, bending to his labours afresh.

"We are passing that same village now," I cried cheerily. "That makes ten miles since our last halt."

The sleigh stopped with a jerk; half a dozen log-huts with a like amount of totem poles, were plainly observable among the dense timber on shore.

"Them Injuns must have something for eating in they houses," spoke Mac thoughtfully, gazing at the rude structures intently.

"But we have nothing to barter, and we know they won't sell," I broke in impatiently.

He made no reply to my remark, but turned to Stewart, who was evidently in a fit of deep mental abstraction: "What's your idea, Stewart, ma man?" he asked insinuatingly, and that individual responded promptly.

"I am wi' ye, Mac, every time, but I hope it's no' a graveyard like the last we tackled." They threw down their sleigh-ropes simultaneously, and were half-way to the village before I had recovered myself.

"Hold hard!" I roared. "What——"

Mac's substantial figure spun round at once. "We'll be back in a meenit," he whispered mysteriously.

I loosened Dave from his harness, and hastened after the doughty pair, expecting every instant to hear sounds of deadly strife, but all remained silent as a tomb, and I shuddered with painful recollections. I found them cavorting around the largest edifice in the group in a manner that under different circumstances would have seemed ludicrous.

"There's naebody in the hooses," cried Stewart gleefully. "The whole tribe must have gone out moose-hunting."

Not infrequently a village is entirely deserted in this way, and I heaved a sigh of relief. "But they may be back at any time," I said, glancing fearfully round.

Mac shrugged his shoulders; "I think, Stewart," he remarked in a most matter-of-fact tone, "I think the door is the weakest place after all."

I swallowed my scruples at a gulp, and became interested in the proceedings at once. Strangely enough, for the moment we all seemed to have forgotten how very similarly our first escapade of the kind had opened.

Crash! Mac's broad shoulder butted the barricaded doorway right ponderously, but though the heavy logs quivered and bent, they resisted the shock. And now Stewart braced himself for the attack, and together they hurled themselves against the wavering supports. There was a resounding echo as the entire structure gave way, and with many chuckles of delight the adventurous couple disappeared within, while I remained outside, my rifle at full cock, listening for the tramp of moccasined feet that would herald the Indians' return. I heard Mac strike match after match, muttering discontentedly the while, and Stewart's dissatisfied grunts filled me with dismay. Was our depredating raid to go unrewarded?

"There's jist the sma'est bit o' caribou ye could imagine in the hale hoose," snorted Mac indignantly. "It wis high time the deevils went huntin', I'm thinkin'."

"Let's try the other hooses," counselled Stewart.

At that moment Dave gave a long, low growl, and immediately an indescribable chorus of yells issued from the forest near at hand. Then, to my horror, I perceived numerous dark forms speeding towards me. Instinctively I levelled my rifle, then by an extreme effort of will lowered it again. We were surely in the wrong. "Come on, boys," I cried, "we must run for it."

"Haud on till I get that bit o' caribou," murmured Mac desperately.

A moment more, and we made a wild burst in the direction of the sleighs, pursued by a number of stalwart warriors, whose vengeful shouts inspired our failing steps with an unwonted activity.

"Let's stop and fecht the deevils," implored Mac, as we grabbed the ropes of our sadly-light conveyance, and even at that juncture he examined his stolen piece of caribou with critical interest. "It's no' fit for human use," he protested angrily. "I'm no' goin' to run for nothing."

But the yelling horde at our heels made him think better of it, and muttering sundry maledictions he hitched on to the rushing sleigh, and lumbered manfully alongside his gloomy compatriot. Fear did certainly lend wings to our flight, and by the time we had reached the outlet leading to Tagash Lake, our pursuers were far in the rear, the obscuring darkness probably being much in our favour. And then, as we hastened over the shelving ice on the connecting river, we beheld a sight that drew from us ejaculations of sheer chagrin. A great fire blazed on the shores of the frozen stream, illuminating in the background a solidly-built logged erection, and showing clearly the outlines of a giant Union Jack fastened to a tree close by. Not a soul was in sight, but I could fancy the comfortable group inside the generous dwelling whiling away the time before a glowing stove or indulging in a luxurious dinner.

"It's a Government station," I said drearily. "It must have been put here just before the ice closed in."

We halted for an instant, and gazed wistfully at the snug police camp. Here surely we might obtain some little stores for our urgent needs, but how dared we ask? The Indians were British subjects, and would indeed be treated with more consideration than we might expect, for it is the policy of the Canadian authorities to protect, even to the outside extreme, the rights of their dusky subjects. Then, again, we had been long on the trail, and our clothing was rent and ragged. The police might judge us by appearances, and then—I did not care to think what might happen. Many thoughts flitted through my mind as we stood there hesitatingly, and my worthy companions, by their silence, showed that they too were thinking deeply. The unmusical cries of our pursuers jarred on our meditations with seemingly awakening vigour.

"They've got our trail," I said sadly. "We'd better get along."

"Civilisashun be d—— d," fervently, if ambiguously, muttered Mac and Stewart almost with one voice, and we staggered out into the bleak, snowy plains of Tagash Lake, and pursued a dogged course southward.

THE TENT AT CARIBOU CROSSING

It was midnight before we halted, and then we camped on the middle of the frozen lake, and near the entrance to the Big Windy Arm; and here, after a most miserable night, we were forced to abandon the greater part of the stolen venison as being in itself but little satisfying to our urgent needs. We started again before daybreak, steering by compass in the darkness. Indeed, it was absolutely necessary that we should keep moving if we would prevent the blood from freezing in our veins. Our plight was surely an unenviable one, and as we stumbled on through the ever-deepening snow, Mac and Stewart cursed the country endlessly in choice vernacular; and even Dave, struggling desperately in his harness, found opportunity to give his verdict in hoarse, muffled growls of deep displeasure.

"We'll bile the first Injun we meet," said Stewart solemnly, after several hours had passed in silence, and he shook his head clear of its encompassing deposits of frosted snow and ice, and gazed at our meagre sleigh-load with pensive eyes.

"I'm no sae sure that Injun is guid for eatin' ony mair than mummy caribou," rejoined Mac after much thought. "I mind," he continued ruminatively, "o' eatin' snake sausages in Sooth America, an' they were wonderfu' paleetable, but Injun?" He shook his ice-enclustered head doubtfully. The day was already drawing to a close; the sun had risen at ten o'clock, and its short arc in the heavens was almost completed. The time at which one usually expects to fortify the inner man had passed in grim silence, and the darkening shadows were creeping over the billowy white waste.

"We must reach Caribou Crossing to-night, boys," I said. "We dare not camp again on the open lake in case a blizzard gets up and wipes us out."

The blackness of night enveloped us completely, and the tingling sensation in our cheeks warned us that the frost intensity was far below the zero scale. Our moccasins sunk through a powdery fleece so crisp, that it crushed like tinder beneath us, and the steel sleigh-runners whistled harshly over the sparkling beady surface. The stars twinkled and shone brilliantly, and great streaks of dazzling light shot at intervals across the northern sky; the night effects were indeed splendid beyond description, yet we were too much engrossed with more practical matters to wax enthusiastic over astronomical glories. Suddenly the sharp hiss-s of a sleigh reached our ears, then out of the darkness came the sound of laboured breathing and smothered growls, as of dogs straining under an undue load. Obeying a common impulse our sorely-tried caravan came to a halt, Dave whining piteously and pawing the ground impatiently, while my companions peered into the night earnestly, then turned and gazed at me in silence. The hurrying sleigh was fast approaching on a course that would lead it but a few yards to our left. I was on the point of stepping forward to intercept the advancing dog-team which was now showing dimly in the starlight, when one of the two men who accompanied it spoke, and his voice sounded distinctly in the still air.

"I thought I heard something," said he.

"What could you hear?" answered his companion gruffly. "There can't be any one nearer than the station at Tagash, and it's far enough off yet, worse luck."

"All the same," reiterated the first speaker, "I'm sure I heard sleigh-runners skidding over the snow. It's mebbe some poor devils coming out from Dawson."

They were almost beside us now, and I wondered that we had not been noticed.

"You'll remember, Corporal," came the tones of the doubtful one in hard, official accents, "that on no account can I give out any supplies. I have my own men to provide for."

For the same reason that we had hurried past the station at Tagash River, I had no desire to bring my party to official notice now; so, inwardly cursing the niggardly captain, I decided to let the team pass without soliciting relief. It was clearly a Government "outfit" for the benefit of the men at Tagash. At a jerky trot the four leading dogs swept by us, swaying wildly as they pulled in their traces. Four more dogs followed, then a heavily-laden sleigh came creaking and groaning through the snow, the runners sunk deep and churning up clouds of vapour which almost hid from view the plump sacks of flour on board. The men came after at an amble, their faces muffled so that they, apparently, could neither turn to the right nor left. I could scarcely restrain my companions at this point from breaking into a vehement denunciation of the police captain and his corporal. They would, indeed, have stormed the sleigh cheerfully, and meted out no gentle treatment to the owners thereof. With energetic pantomimic gestures I implored them to be calm; the team was fast being swallowed up in the gloom, but before it had disappeared from our penetrating gaze a broken sentence floated back to our ears: "Pity ... had to leave so much ... Caribou Crossing ... back to-morrow.... D—— d Klondikers."

For five minutes more we waited in silence, during which time Mac and Stewart were effervescing to an alarming climax, then we gave full vent to our joy. "Ho! ho! ho!" laughed my companions. "Pity left so much at Caribou! D—— d Klondikers! Ho! ho! ho!" Dave, too, seemed to understand the situation, and promptly proceeded to bark out his appreciation; but his exuberance was too noisy, so it was hurriedly checked.

"Get under way, boys," I said, when my henchmen had recovered their equanimity, "for we'll need to look lively before the trail is blotted out." We had not spoken a word about the matter, yet there existed a perfect understanding between us. If anything edible had been left at Caribou Crossing we were determined to commandeer it.

The well-weighted sleigh had made an easily-observable trail; in the dim starlight the twin furrows formed by the runners glittered and shone like the yeasty foam from a ship's propeller. We carefully directed the prow of our snow-ship into these well-padded channels, and with renewed energy forged ahead, thinking longingly of what might await us at Caribou. Soon the shadows on either side of the lake drew nearer and nearer, and the steep, wooded shores of the dreary waterway narrowed inwards, so that the feathery fronds of the stately pine-trees were plainly discernible; we were approaching the entrance to Caribou Crossing. Five minutes later we had passed through the narrow channel—it was barely twenty yards across—and were speeding silently over the deep drifts of snow which were wreathed in giant masses on the surface of the frozen lagoon. The hitherto heavily-marked trail now appeared blurred and indistinct, and the dense forests lining the "crossing" threw a shadow on the track which effectually neutralised the vague glimmer of the stars, so that we had literally to feel for the deep sleigh channels.

"If I'm spared to come oot o' this, groaned Mac, as he crawled gingerly on all fours across the drifts, "I'll never speak o' ma sufferin's, for naebody could believe what I hae endured."

"I hae traivelled faur," supplemented Stewart, lifting up his voice in pathetic appeal, "but I've never been sae afflicted."

Having now introduced the subject of their woes they proceeded to comfort one another in well-chosen words of sympathy. "You'll suffer a considerable amount more if you don't find the trail soon," I broke in by way of getting their attention more concentrated on the very urgent matter on hand. But Stewart would have one word more:

"I'll mak' a fine moniment tae ye, Mac, ma man," he said with a sigh, adding lugubriously, "puir, puir Mac."

"I'll hae yer life for that, ye deevil," roared that irate gentleman, getting to his feet suddenly, and in consequence floundering to the waist in the chilly wreaths.

Again I essayed to interfere. "Seems to me, boys," I said, "that you'd better reserve your energy——" A loud bark interrupted my further speech, and Mac immediately bellowed,

"Dave has got the trail; come on, Stewart, an' we'll hae a glorious feast o' Government stores very soon."

I thought he was anticipating over-much, but I took care to say nothing to discourage the pair, who now, side by side, were crawling rapidly over the snow, tracing a new series of markings which led into the heart of the thick foliage on shore. I followed after my comrades with alacrity, but the drifts were very wide and deep, and I sunk to the neck in their icy folds, and was almost frozen before I managed to extricate myself.

"Are you following the trail, boys?" I cried, "or is it a bear track you are tracing up?" They were too much engrossed in their sleuth-hound operations to notice my inquiry, but as I had reached the shelter of the timber where the snow was but thinly laid, I now groped my way more quickly forward, and overtook the keen-eyed couple as they stopped short and emitted a simultaneous howl of delight.

"Got it! Got it!" they yelled in unison, and Dave made the wooded slopes resound with his deep-mouthed bark.

"Got what?" I interrogated, when opportunity offered, for nothing but absolute blackness surrounded us.

"Licht a match," joyously spoke Mac.

Somewhat mystified I struck a sulphur match and held it aloft, and by its sputtering flame I saw before me a 10 × 12 tent, on the roof of which was painted in huge black letters, "N.W.M.P."

"We certainly have got it," I said with much satisfaction, "and we'll see what's inside without delay."

"Scotland yet!" roared Stewart, in an ecstasy of delight, performing a few steps of the Highland fling as delicately as his heavily-padded moccasins would permit. Mac was more practical; he proceeded to execute what appeared in the gloom to be a solemn ghost dance, but in reality he was searching for the "door" end of the tent.

"Haud yer noise, ye gomeril!" he said shortly, addressing his pirouetting companion, "an' when ye've feenished capering ye'll mebbe get a candle off the sleigh."

The candle was quickly forthcoming, and the flap of the tent discovered; it was laced tightly with long strips of caribou hide, and so was not easily located in the darkness. We were not long in forcing an entry, the board-like canvas was rooted up from the snow where it had frozen fast, several hoary branches were pushed away from the inside wall, then we boldly took possession. At first survey our "find" seemed disappointing, the tent was almost empty; only a few very dilapidated-looking sacks were piled within, and the dripping icicles from the ridge gave a most frigid aspect to a dismal enough scene. Mac, however, was not discouraged. "There maun be something for eatin' in they bags," he said cheerfully, which was logic of the clearest nature; then he proceeded to explore their contents, and while thus engaged Stewart gathered together some branches and started a bright blaze at the doorway.

"There's flour in this ane!" announced Mac joyfully, "an' beans in anither!" he supplemented; then his delighted cries were frequent. "We've got a wee thing o' maist everything that's guid," he summed up finally, issuing out into the ruddy glow of the fire, where the billies, filled with rapidly-melting snow, were fizzling away merrily.

The good news affected Stewart visibly. "A'll mak' a gorgeous re-past the nicht, ye deevils," said he, "A'll mak' a rale sumshus feast."

The keen edge of our appetite was dulled as a preliminary by copious draughts of coffee and the remnants of the morning's damper, then operations were begun for the "gorgeous feast." Mac obligingly acted as cook's assistant, and chopped off from the solidified contents of the sacks the requisite amount of flour and other ingredients necessary—and I fear many that were not altogether necessary in the strict sense of the word, for beans, and flour, and rolled oats, and rice did not seem to me to be a correct combination. But I was a novice in these arts and feared to speak, and the manufacture of the "sumshus repast" went on apace.

The night was far advanced, yet for once on the long dreary march from Dawson we were in no hurry to court slumber, although we had travelled over thirty miles that day. I think Stewart sized up my own thoughts rather clearly when he said, during a lull in his artistic labours, "What fur should we gang awa' early the morn'? It wad be a rael pity tae leave this mag-nificent camp."

"We might wait just a little too long, Stewart," I replied, and visions of an angry captain and his stalwart followers floated unpleasantly before my eyes.

It was near midnight when the gurgling billy was lifted from its perch amid the glowing logs, and Stewart gingerly fished from its interior a round steaming mass, neatly enclosed in an old oatmeal sack and tied at the top. With deft fingers its author undid the wrappings, and lo! a rubicund pudding of cannon-ball-like aspect greeted our expectant visions, and was hailed with loud acclamation.

"Ever see a puddin' like that, Mac?" demanded Stewart, gazing at it tenderly, and his cautious compatriot somewhat sadly replied—

"Only aince, Stewart, an' that wis when we found Gold Bottom Creek, an' ye nearly killed King Jamie o' the Thronducks wi' indegestion."

The compliment was just a trifle vague, and was regarded with suspicion by the prime conspirator, but he said no more, and we attacked the "puddin'" in silence, and with a vigour borne of many days' travel on short rations.

Despite its heterogeneous nature, Stewart's culinary creation proved a veritable triumph to his art; at any rate it quickly disappeared from view, even Dave's share being rather grudgingly given. Never, since we had entered the country, had we fared so well, and when coiled up in our blankets close to the blazing fire, we felt indeed at peace with all mankind—including the police captain. All night long we kept the flames replenished, and dreamily gazed at each other through the curling smoke, for our unusual surfeit had banished sleep from our eyes. And but a few yards away from the burning logs the air was filled with dancing frost particles that seemed to form a white wall around us, for our thermometer, hung on a branch near by, registered forty-two degrees below zero. The long hours of darkness dragged slowly on, and it was nearly eleven o'clock in the morning before the faint light of day gradually dispelled the murky gloom, yet still we lolled laggard-like by the fire, starvation did not force us on this morning, and we had not rested these last six hundred miles. About noon, however, we decided to get up and have breakfast, and after many abortive attempts we succeeded in unwinding our bodies from the blankets in which they were swathed like Egyptian mummies.

"It wis a gorgeous banquet," ruminated Mac, as he busied himself with the sleigh and made fast thereon various little sacks appropriated from the tent.

"There's nae man," responded Stewart with eloquence, "kin teach me onything aboot cooking—especially puddens."

I now thought it advisable to examine the markings on the snow where the trail had given us so much trouble on the night before. I could not yet understand why a tent and stores should have been left at Caribou Crossing, one of the most gloomy spots throughout the whole course of the Yukon. "Be lively with the breakfast, boys," I said, "for I am inclined to think the climate thirty miles further south will be healthier for us to-night." And I made my way out to the edge of the forest.

I reached the lakeside without difficulty; the keen frost of the preceding hours had given a thick crust to the deep snow-drifts intervening; I then made a careful scrutiny of the various sleigh-runner channels which were plainly evident, and which united at the point where we had to diverge into the wood. A double trail led southward towards Lake Bennet, but a single one only continued its course to Tagash station. At once the meaning was plain. Two sleighs had started from Bennet station, and the drifts on Caribou proving unduly deterrent, one sleigh load had been temporarily abandoned. I remembered the two teams of dogs in the sleigh we had met. Everything was clear in an instant. "Yes, we'll certainly be healthier in a more southerly latitude to-night," I said to myself as I turned to go back to my companions. The enticing odour of an unusually appetising breakfast greeted my nostrils, and brought back a feeling of serene contentment. But my happiness was shortlived. I had barely reached the camp fire when I became vaguely conscious of some disturbing element in the air. I listened intently, then faintly sounded the tinkle of sleigh bells in the distance, and now and again the sharp crack of a dog-whip smote the keen air. There was no need to explain matters; even Dave whined knowingly, and backed voluntarily into his harness.

"Jist oor luck," grumbled Stewart, grabbing the cooked bacon and thrusting it into one of the billies.

"It's a blessed thing," quoth Mac, philosophically, "that we had such a magnee——"

"Are you ready, boys?" I interrupted. The bells sounded sharply now, and I could hear the irascible captain cursing on the dogs.

"I'm staunin' by the ingines," grunted Mac.

"There's naething left," said Stewart, "unless we tak' the tent."

"Then full speed ahead," I cried; "we'll camp somewhere near the head of Lake Bennet, to-night."

With a sharp jerk the sleigh bounded forward, keeping the shelter of the timber for the first few hundred yards, then sweeping into the open at the entrance to Lake Bennet, we forced a trail towards Lake Linderman at an unusually rapid rate.

ACROSS THE CHILCOOT PASS

The snow was falling in thick, blinding sheets when we reached Lake Linderman, and struggled up the first precipitous climb leading to the dreaded Chilcoot.

A death-like stillness lingered in the valley; the towering mountain peaks enclosing the chain of lakes had formed ample protection from the elements; but soon we ascended into a different atmosphere, where the wind burst upon us with dire force, and dashed the snow in clouds against our faces. In vain we laboured on; my comrades sank at times to their necks in the snow, even the sleigh was half buried in the seething masses, and rolled over continuously. I alone had snow-shoes, and for the first time in the seven hundred miles' trail we had traversed I strapped the long Indian "runners" to my moccasins, and endeavoured to pad a track for the following train, but the attempt proved futile. Two hours after leaving the lake we had barely progressed a mile, and the air was becoming dark and heavy with the increasing fury of the gale, which tossed the white clouds aloft, and showered them over our sorely-tried caravan. Never had we dreamed of encountering such weather. We had come from the silent Klondike valley, where the tempests were hushed by the Frost King, who reigned with iron hand.

At two in the afternoon we reached timber limit, and here a few stunted trees showed their tips above the snow, but beyond the bleak surfaces of Deep and Long Lakes appeared bare and forbidding, and the loud shriek of the gathering gale warned us to venture no further that day. We hurriedly scooped a hole in the snow, and lined it with our furs; then the sleigh was mounted as a bulwark against the drifts, and we lay down in our strange excavation, exhausted and utterly disheartened. Mac at length broke the silence. "We might have a fire o' some sort," he said, looking round. Very gingerly he and his companion crawled towards the tree-tops, and broke off the tough green branches. After much coaxing the unwilling wood ignited, and we clustered joyfully round the pungent smoke—for there was little else—and endeavoured to infuse some warmth into our frozen bodies. The thick blackness of night was rapidly closing over, and the storm showed no signs of diminishing; so we obtained what timber we could from the tree-tops, and stored it in our shelter to feed the feeble fire through the long dreary night. Then we thawed some snow, and boiled a "billy" of coffee, and the warm fluid helped to sustain us greatly; but still the wind howled and the snow pattered down on our faces with relentless force, and the drifts from the edge of our pit ever and anon deluged us. How we passed that night is beyond description. We huddled near to each other for warmth, while our dog beside us groaned and shivered violently despite all our efforts to protect him from the icy blasts.

Morning at last arrived, but no welcome light appeared; the air continued murky and dense with flying snow. Ten o'clock, eleven, and twelve passed, and we were beginning to despair of getting a start that day. Then the gloom merged into a dull grey haze, and we could distinguish faintly through the driving mists the glacier peaks flanking Long Lake. We had thawed snow and made coffee for breakfast, but notwithstanding that fortification we felt ill-prepared to renew our battle with the elements.

"We'll make another try, boys," I said, after a brief survey around. "We may reach the summit to-day, but the chances are against it."

Dave was again harnessed to the sleigh, and with three separate ropes attached we straggled forward on different tracks, and pulled as if for dear life. Slowly we forged ahead over Deep Lake, staggering, stumbling, and floundering wildly. Even Dave sank in the yielding track, and his efforts to extricate himself would have been amusing—under different circumstances. As we proceeded the gale increased, and almost hurled us back, and I noted with alarm the heavy gathering clouds that seemed to hang between us and the pass; they spread rapidly, and with them came fresh blasts that whistled across the white lake surface, and tore it into heaving swells even as we looked. I prayed for light, but the gloom deepened and the snow fell thicker and faster. At length we reached the cañon leading to Crater Lake, and with every nerve strained we fought our way forward literally foot by foot. The snow-wreaths here were of extraordinary depths, and several times my companions would disappear altogether, actually swimming again to the surface, for only such a motion would sustain the body on the broken snow.

At three o'clock we had travelled but two and a half miles, and the storm was yet rising. Had we been provided with food our position would not have caused us much alarm, but coffee had been our lot for forty-eight hours, and now raw coffee alone must be our portion, for we were above timber limit, and so could have no fire. Starvation from cold and hunger combined promised to be rather a miserable finish to our labours. The deep breathing of my companions betrayed their sufferings; their weakened frames could ill endure such buffetings. At every other step they would sink in the vapoury snow, while poor Dave's muffled howls were pitiful to hear.

"We'll have to camp again, boys," I shouted. But where could we camp, and preserve our already freezing bodies? As I have said, we were beyond timber limit; only the dull, drifting snow appeared on every side, and the darkness was quickly hiding even that from view. I relinquished my sleigh rope, and battled forward against the blizzard alone. My snow-shoes skimmed rapidly over the treacherous drifts, but the extreme exertion was too much for me, and I had to come to a halt. The air in such a latitude, and at a 3,500-feet altitude, is keen enough even when there is no blizzard raging. In the few hundred yards I had sped ahead I had left my comrades hopelessly behind; they were blotted from my sight as if by an impenetrable pall. Suddenly, through a cleft in the driving sleet, I caught a glimpse of a blue glistening mass close before me. I remembered that I was in the vicinity of the large glacier at "Happy Camp," but the glacier had evidently "calved," for it was formerly well up the mountain side. I staggered over to it, and felt its glassy sides with interest; then I noticed a great cavity between the giant mass and the mountain-ledge. It was indeed a calved glacier, and in its fall it had formed a truly acceptable place of shelter. I cried loudly to my companions, but only the shriek of the blizzard was my reply. I was afraid to leave my "find" in case I might not discover it again, so I drew my Colt Navy and fired rapidly into the air. The sound seemed dull and insignificant in the howling storm, but a feeble bark near at hand answered back, and through the mists loomed my doughty henchmen with their sleigh-ropes over their shoulders, and crawling on all fours beside the dog. They had been forced to divide their weight over the snow in this strange fashion, and even as it was they sank at intervals with many a gasp and splutter into the great white depths. "Happy Camp!" I cried.

"This is an end o' us a' noo," Mac wearily groaned, staggering into the ice cavern.

"Happy Camp" was the name derisively applied to the vicinity in the summer. It was then the first halting stage after crossing the pass, and as no timber existed near, no fires could be made, and hence the name. But what it was like at this time, in midwinter, is beyond my powers to describe. Imagine a vast glittering field of ice stretching from the peaks above to the frozen stream below, and a small idea of its miseries as a camping-ground is at once apparent. Yet it was a welcome shelter to us at such a time, and we dragged the sleigh into the dark aperture thankfully, and, wrapping ourselves in our blankets, listened to the moaning of the storm outside. At each great rush of wind the walls of our cave would quiver and crackle, and far overhead a deep rumbling broke at intervals upon our ears. Our glacier home was certainly no safe retreat, for it was gradually, yet surely, moving downwards. My companions recognised their perilous position immediately they heard the well-known grinding sound, but they said nothing—they were evidently of opinion that we were as safe inside as out, and, as Stewart afterwards grimly said, "It would hae been an easier death onywey."

The cold was very intense, and we shivered in the darkness for hours without a word being spoken. To such an extremity had we been reduced that Mac and Stewart assiduously chewed the greasy strips of caribou hide which did duty as moccasin laces, while I endeavoured, but with little success, to swallow some dry coffee. If we could only have a fire, I reasoned, we might live to see the morning, but without it there seemed little hope.

We had all grown apathetic, and indeed were quite resigned to a horrible fate. I was aroused from a lethargic reverie by the piteous cries of Dave, who remained still harnessed. I patted his great shaggy head, and pulling my sheath-knife, cut the traces that bound him. As I did so my hand came in contact with the sleigh, and at once a new idea flashed over me.

"Get up, boys!" I cried. "We've forgotten that the sleigh will burn."

In an instant they were on their feet. One thought was common to us all—we must have a fire, no matter the cost. Mac lighted a piece of candle, and stuck it on the hard ground. Then he and Stewart attacked the sleigh energetically, and in a few moments the snow-ship that had borne our all for seven hundred miles was reduced to splinters. Eagerly we clustered round as the match was applied, and fanned the laggard flame with our breaths until it burst out cheerily, crackling and glowing, illuminating the trembling walls of the cavern, and causing the crystal roof to scintillate with a hundred varying hues. Sparingly Mac fed the flame; if we could only keep it alive till morning the blizzard might have abated. Piece by piece the wood was applied, and the feeble fire was maintained with anxious care. Hour after hour passed, and still the blizzard howled, and the swirling snow-drifts swept to our feet as we bent over our one frail comfort, and protected the wavering flame from the smothering sleet.

At various times throughout the weary hours I fancied I could hear a faint moaning without our shelter, but the inky blackness of the night obscured all vision, and after aimlessly groping in the snow for some minutes after each alarm, I had to crawl back benumbed and helpless.

"It must have been the wind," said Stewart.

"There's nae man could cross the pass last night," spoke Mac.

Dave lay coiled up on my blanket apparently fast asleep. The noble animal had had nothing to eat for two days, and I feared he would not wake again. Suddenly, however, he started up, growling hoarsely. The moaning sound again reached our ears, prolonged and plaintive. Then came the sharp whistle of the blizzard, clear, decisive. There could be no mistake. Assuredly some unfortunate was out in the cruel storm. Our four-footed companion struggled to his feet with an effort, and swaying erratically, he rushed from the cave whining dolefully. We gazed at each other in silence; we dreaded the discovery we were about to make.

"Keep the fire alight as a guide to us, Mac," I said, and Stewart and I went out into the storm. And now Dave's deep-mouthed barks penetrated the dense mists, and we crawled towards the cañon in the direction of the sound; but we had not far to go. A few yards from our retreat I felt Dave's furry body at my knees, and then my hand came in contact with a human form half buried in the drifts.

"It's a man, Stewart," I said, and he answered with a groan of sympathy. We extricated the stiff, frozen body from the engulfing snow and dragged it tenderly towards the light we had left; and there, in that miserable spot, we strove to bring back the life that had all but fled.

"We have nothing to gie him," said Mac hopelessly; "an' the fire's gone oot."

"There should be some coffee," I answered, "and the furs and my long boots will burn."

Soon our treasured possessions smouldered and flamed; boots, moccasins, silver-tipped furs—all that we had that would simmer or burn was sacrificed, and a piece of ice from the wall was thawed and slowly boiled. When the hot fluid was forced between his lips the rescued man opened his eyes and looked around. Soon he had recovered sufficiently to speak a few words. He had ventured across the Chilcoot, despite all warnings from the miners at Sheep Camp. He had wandered over Crater Lake all day, not knowing where the valley lay owing to the dense mists prevailing. "The blizzard has been blowing on the pass for two days," said he; "your light attracted me last night, but I could not reach it." Such was the tale of the poor victim of the pass; he died before morning, despite our struggles to save him, and we felt that we could not survive him long.

No light appeared at ten o'clock, nor was there any promise of the blinding storm abating. Our fire had gone out, and we sat in darkness beside the lifeless body we had saved from the snows.

"We'll make another try, boys," I said. "We may as well go under trying, if it has to be."

Our load was small enough now; the pity was we had not lightened it sooner. I strapped the small mail-bag to my shoulders; my comrades carried all further impedimenta, and, leaving the dead man in his icy vault we staggered into the darkness and forced an erratic track towards the Chilcoot Pass. Crater Lake was reached in two hours; I could only guess we had arrived at it by the evenness of the surface, the air was so dense that objects could not be distinguished even a few feet distant. I tried to fix a bearing by compass, but the attempt was futile, the needle swaying to all points in turn, owing to the magnetic influences around. Then we felt for the mountain-side on the left, and staggered over the blast-blown rocks and glaciers along its precipitous steeps.

As we neared the summit the howl of the blizzard increased to a shrill, piercing whistle, but we now were sheltered by the pass, and the fierce blast passed overhead. All this time we forced onward through a murky gloom with our bodies joined with ropes that we might not lose one another. At three in the afternoon I calculated that we were near the crucial point at which the final ascent can be negotiated, and we left the white shores of Crater Lake and clambered up into the rushing mists where the blizzard shrieked and moaned alternately, and hurled huge blocks of glacier ice and frozen snow down into the Crater valley. The top was reached at last, and no words of mine can describe the inferno that raged on that dread summit. We lay flat on our faces and writhed our way forward through a bubbling, foaming mass of snow and ice. Our bodies were cut and bruised with the flying débris, and our clothing was torn to rags. The blizzard had now attained an extraordinary pitch, the mountain seemed to rock and tremble with its fury, and inch by inch we crawled towards the perpendicular declivity leading to the "Scales"—full eight hundred feet of almost sheer descent. Cautiously we manœuvred across the great glacier that rests in the Devil's Cauldron—a cup-shaped hollow in the top of the notorious pass—and at once the blaze of a fire burst before our eyes, illuminating the apparently bottomless depths beyond.

The ice-field on which we lay overhung the rocks to a dangerous degree, and I realised that we must make the descent from some other part of the semicircular ridge. We crept back hurriedly, and as we stood gasping in the "cauldron" before making a détour to find a possible trail, a mighty rumbling shook the pass, and we clutched at the snow around, which flew upwards in great geyser-like columns, almost smothering us in its descending showers. The overlapping ice had plunged into the valley, carrying with it hundreds of tons of accumulated snow; we escaped the powerful suction by a few yards only.