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Glen of the High North

by H. A. Cody · English · Gutenberg #16699 · 478,116 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Glen of the High North

Author: H. A. Cody


        
Release date: September 15, 2005 [eBook #16699]
                Most recently updated: December 12, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16699

Credits: E-text prepared by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLEN OF THE HIGH NORTH ***


E-text prepared by Al Haines



GLEN OF THE HIGH NORTH

by

H. A. CODY

Author of "The Frontiersman," "The Lost Patrol,"
"The Chief of the Ranges," "The Touch of Abner," etc.

McClelland and Stewart
Publishers : : : Toronto
George H. Doran Company

1920







To

ALL TRUE MEN AND WOMEN

Of the Outer Trails of the Yukon,

Where for Years the Author Lived and Travelled,

This Book is Affectionately Dedicated.




CONTENTS

      I  ONE FLEETING VISION
     II  WHEN THE FOG-BANK LIFTED
    III  A BIG BLAZIN' LAUGH
     IV  BEYOND THE GREAT WHITE PASS
      V  COMRADES OP THE TRAIL
     VI  A SHOT THAT TOLD
    VII  BOTTLES WILL DO
   VIII  LOVE VERSUS GOLD
     IX  THE OUTER TRAIL
      X  ADRIFT IN THE WILDERNESS
     XI  INTO THE GREAT UNKNOWN
    XII  THE GIRL OF GLEN WEST
   XIII  WHEN THE STORM BURST
    XIV  ANOTHER PRISONER
     XV  JIM WESTON
    XVI  THE ORDEAL
   XVII  MAN TO MAN
  XVIII  THE PREPARED ROOM
    XIX  THE TURN OF EVENTS
     XX  A SHOT FROM THE GOLDEN CREST
    XXI  THE PLOTTERS
   XXII  THE CABIN IN THE HILLS
  XXIII  AT THE REVOLVER'S POINT
   XXIV  WHEN THE RIFLES CRACKED
    XXV  BY THE INLAND LAKE
   XXVI  THROUGH THE STORM
  XXVII  IN THE TOILS
 XXVIII  HELP FROM THE HILLS
   XXIX  THE OLD TRUE STORY
    XXX  THE UNMASKING
   XXXI  OUTWARD BOUND




  "Something lost beyond the Ranges,
    Lost; and calling to you.  Go."

  KIPLING



  "She had grown, in her unstained seclusion,
  bright and pure as a first opening lilac,
  when it spreads its clear leaves to the
  sweetest dawn of May."

  PERCIVAL




GLEN OF THE HIGH NORTH


CHAPTER I

ONE FLEETING VISION

It all happened in less than two minutes, and yet in that brief space
of time his entire outlook upon life was changed.  He saw her across
the street standing upon the edge of the sidewalk facing the throng of
teams and motors that were surging by.  She had evidently attempted to
cross, but had hurriedly retreated owing to the tremendous crush of
traffic.  The gleam of the large electric light nearby brought into
clear relief a face of more than ordinary charm and beauty.  But that
which appealed so strongly to the young man was the mingled expression
of surprise, fear and defiance depicted upon her countenance.  It
strangely affected him, and he was on the point of springing forward to
offer his assistance when she suddenly disappeared, swallowed up in the
great tide of humanity.

For a few minutes the young man stood perfectly still, gazing intently
upon the spot where the girl had been standing, hoping to see her
reappear.  He could not account for the feeling that had swept upon him
at the sight of that face.  It was but one of the thousands he daily
beheld, yet it alone stirred him to his inmost depths.  A few minutes
before he had been walking along the street without any definite aim in
life, listless and almost cynical.  But now a desire possessed him to
be up and doing, to follow after the fair vision which had so
unexpectedly appeared.  Who could she be, and where was she going?
Should he ever see her again, and if he did would he have the slightest
chance of meeting and talking with her?

These thoughts occupied his mind as he continued on his way.  He walked
erect now, with shoulders thrown back, and with a more buoyant step
than he had taken in many a day.  His blood tingled and his eyes glowed
with a new-found light.  He felt much of the old thrill that had
animated him at the beginning of the Great War, and had sent him
overseas to take his part in the titanic struggle.  An overmastering
urge had then swept upon him, compelling him to abandon all on behalf
of the mighty cause.  It was his nature, and the leopard could no more
change its spots than could Tom Reynolds overcome the influence of a
gripping desire.  Ever since childhood thought and action had always
been welded in the strong clear heat of an overwhelming purpose.  It
had caused him considerable trouble, but at the same time it had
carried him through many a difficult undertaking that had daunted other
men.  It was only the afterwards that affected him, the depression,
when the objective had been attained.  So for months after the war
ended his life had seemed of no avail, and he found it impossible to
settle comfortably back into the grooves of civilian life in a
bustling, thriving city.  Everything seemed tame and insignificant
after what he had experienced overseas.  Time instead of lessening had
only increased this feeling, until Reynolds believed that he could no
longer endure the prosaic life of the city.  Such was the state of his
mind when he beheld the face across the street, which in some
mysterious manner gave him a sudden impulse and a new outlook upon the
world.  After a short quick walk, he turned into a side street and
stopped at length before a building from which extended a large
electric sign, bearing the words _Telegram_ and _Evening News_.  He
entered, and at once made his way through several rooms until he
reached the editorial office at the back of the building.  The door was
open, and seated at the desk was an elderly man, busily writing.  He
looked up as Reynolds appeared, and a smile illumined his face.

"You are back early, Tom.  Found something special?"

"Yes," Reynolds replied as he sat down upon the only vacant chair the
office contained.  "But nothing for publication."

The editor pushed back his papers, swung himself around in his chair
and faced the visitor.

"What is it, Tom?" he asked.  "You look more animated than I have seen
you for many a day.  What has come over you?  What is the special
something you have found?"

"Myself."

"Yourself!"

"That's just it.  I'm through with this job."

The editor eyed the young man curiously yet sympathetically.  He was to
him as a son, and he had done everything in his power to help him since
his return from the war.  But he was well aware that Reynolds was not
happy, and that newspaper work was proving most uncongenial.

"Where are you going, Tom, and what are you going to do?" he presently
asked.

"I have not the slightest idea, sir.  But I must get away from this
hum-drum existence.  It is killing me by inches.  I need adventure,
life in the open, where a man can breathe freely and do as he likes."

"Haven't you done about as you like, Tom, since you came home?  I
promised your father on his death-bed that I would look after you, and
I have tried to do so in every possible way.  I sincerely hoped that
your present work would suit you better than in an office.  You are
free to roam where you will, and whatever adventure has taken place in
this city during the past six months you were in the midst of it, and
wrote excellent reports, too."

"I know that, sir, and I feel deeply indebted to you for what you have
done.  But what does it all amount to?  What interest do I take in
trouble along the docks, a fight between a couple of toughs in some
dark alley, or a fashionable wedding in one of the big churches?  Bah!
I am sick of them all, and the sooner I get away the better."

Reynolds produced a cigarette, lighted it and threw the match upon the
floor.  From the corner of his eye he watched the editor as he toyed
thoughtfully with his pen.  This man was nearer to him than anyone else
in the world, and he was afraid that he had annoyed him by his plain
outspoken words.

"And you say you have nothing in view?" the editor at length enquired.

"Nothing.  Can you suggest anything?  Something that will tax all my
energy of mind and body.  That is what I want.  I hope you do not
misunderstand me, sir.  I do not wish to seem ungrateful for what you
have done."

"I do understand you, Tom, and were I in your position, and of your
age, I might feel the same.  But what about your painting?  Have you
lost all interest in that?  When you were in France you often wrote
what impressions you were getting, and how much you intended to do when
you came home."

"I have done very little at that, and the sketches I made are still
uncompleted.  Some day I may do something, but not now."

"You certainly have lost all interest, Tom, in the things that once
gave you so much pleasure."

"It is only too true, although I have honestly tried to return to the
old ways.  But I must have a fling at something else to get this
restless feeling out of my system.  What do you suggest!  Perhaps it is
only a thrashing I need.  That does children good sometimes."

The editor smiled as he pulled out a drawer in his desk, and brought
forth a fair-sized scrapbook.  He slowly turned the pages and stopped
at length where a large newspaper clipping had been carefully pasted.

"I do not think you need a thrashing, Tom," he began.  "But I believe I
can suggest something better than that.  Here is an entry I made in
this book over fifteen years ago, and the story it contains appeals
strongly to me now.  I read it at least once a year, and it has been
the cause of many a day-dream to me, and night-dream as well, for that
matter.  Did you ever hear of the mysterious disappearance of Henry
Redmond, the wealthy merchant of this city?  But I suppose not, as you
were young at the time."

"No, I never heard of him," Reynolds acknowledged.  "Was he killed?"

"Oh, no.  He merely disappeared, and left no trace at all.  That was,
as I have just said, over fifteen years ago, and no word has been
received from him since."

"What was the trouble?  Financial difficulties?"

"Not at all.  He simply disappeared.  It was due to his wife's death,
so I believe.  They were greatly attached to each other, and when she
suddenly died Redmond was a broken-hearted man.  I knew him well and it
was pathetic to watch him.  He took no interest in his business, and
sold out as soon as possible.  Then he vanished, and that was the last
we heard of him.  He was an odd man in many ways, and although one of
the shrewdest men in business I ever knew, he was fond of the simple
life.  He was a great reader, and at one time possessed a very fine
library.  This article which I wish you to read tells the story of his
life, how he built up his business, and of his sudden disappearance."

"How do you know he wasn't killed?" Reynolds asked.

"Because of this," and the editor laid his forefinger upon a small
separate clipping at the bottom of the larger one.  A short time after
Redmond disappeared, and when the excitement of all was intense, this
was received and published.  Although it bore no name, yet we well know
that it was from Redmond, for it was just like something he would do.
This is what he wrote:


"'I go from the busy haunts of men, far from the bustle and worry of
business life.  I may be found, but only he who is worthy will find me,
and whoever finds me, will, I trust, not lose his reward.  From the
loopholes of retreat I shall watch the stress and fever of life, but
shall not mingle in the fray.'"


"Queer words, those," Reynolds remarked, when the editor had finished
reading.  "What do you make of them?"

"I hardly know, although I have considered them very carefully.  I
believe they contain a hidden meaning, and that the finding will
consist of more than the mere discovery of his person.  It must refer
to something else, some quality of heart or mind, that is, the real
personality behind the mere outward form."

"A double quest, eh, for anyone who undertakes the venture?"

"It seems so, Tom, and that makes it all the more difficult.  But what
an undertaking!  How I wish I were young again, and I should be off
to-morrow.  I was a fool not to make the try fifteen years ago.  I
would not now be chained to this desk, I feel certain of that."

"And as you cannot go yourself, you want----?"  Reynolds paused and
looked quizzically at the editor.

"I want you to go in my stead," was the emphatic reply.  "You are
young, strong, and anxious for adventure."

"For what purpose, sir?  Why do you wish me to undertake this
wild-goose chase?  For such it seems to me."

"I wish you to go for three reasons.  First, for your own good; as an
outlet to your abundant energy, and to give you some object in life.
Next, to satisfy a curiosity that has been consuming me for years.  I
am more than anxious to know what has become of Henry Redmond.  And
finally, for the sake of my paper.  If you should prove successful,
what a write-up it will make, for you will have a wonderful story to
tell.  Doesn't the thing appeal to you?  Why, it makes my blood tingle
at the thought of such an undertaking."

"It does stir me a bit," Reynolds acknowledged.  "But where am I to go?
Have you any idea where Redmond is?  The world is big, remember, and
without any clue, the chase would be absolute folly."

"I am well aware of all that.  I have no idea where Redmond is, and
that makes the venture all the more interesting.  If I could tell you
where he is, and you merely went and found him, bah! that would not be
worth the trouble.  But the uncertainty of it all is what appeals to
me.  The whole world is before you, and somewhere in the world I
believe Henry Redmond is living.  Your task is to find him.  Can you do
it?"

For a few minutes Reynolds did not speak.  He was interested, but the
undertaking seemed so utterly hopeless and ridiculous that he
hesitated.  If he had the slightest clue as to the man's whereabouts it
would be different.

"How old a man was Redmond when he disappeared?" he at length asked.

"About fifty, I understand, although he appeared much older at times.
He was a fine looking man, over six feet in height, and a large head,
crowned with a wealth of hair streaked with gray, when last I saw him.
His commanding appearance attracted attention wherever he went, and
that should aid you somewhat in your search."

"Had he any family?" Reynolds questioned.

"One little girl only, for he married late in life.  His friends
thought that he would remain a permanent bachelor, and they were
greatly surprised when he unexpectedly took to himself a wife much
younger than himself, and very beautiful.  They lived most happily
together, and when his wife died Redmond was heartbroken."

"Perhaps her death affected his mind," Reynolds suggested.

"I have thought of that, and his sudden disappearance, as well as the
peculiar letter I read to you, lends color to the idea."

"What became of the child?"

"No one knows.  He evidently took her with him, and that is another
reason why I believe no harm befell him as you suggested.  The whole
affair is involved in the deepest mystery."

"And did no one attempt to solve it?" Reynolds asked.  "Was no effort
made to find the missing man?"

"There was at the time, and the newspapers far and near made mention of
his disappearance.  It was the talk of the city for several weeks, and
I understand that several men thought seriously of searching for him.
But the interest gradually waned, and he was forgotten except by a few,
of whom I am one."

Reynolds rose to his feet and picked up his hat.

"Suppose I think this over for a few days?" he suggested.  "If I get
the fever I shall let you know.  In the meantime I shall plug away at
my present job.  I can't afford to be idle, for 'idleness is the
holiday of fools,' as someone has said."

"That's fine, Tom," and the editor's face brightened with pleasure.
"And, remember, you shall be supplied with all the money you need, so
do not worry about that."

"Thank you, but I have a little of my own that will last me for a
while.  When I run through with it I may call upon you."

"Very well, do as you like, Tom.  But think it over and let me know of
your decision as soon as possible."




CHAPTER II

WHEN THE FOG-BANK LIFTED

The _Northern Light_ was lying at her wharf preparing for her long run
to the far Northern Pacific, through the numerous islands studding the
coastal waters of British Columbia, and the United States Territory of
Alaska.  All day long she had been taking on board great quantities of
freight, and now on the eve of her departure passengers were arriving.
The latter were mostly men, for new gold diggings had been discovered
back in the hills bordering the Yukon River, and old-timers were
flocking northward, anticipating another Klondyke, and all that it
might mean.

Tom Reynolds stood on the wharf noting the excitement that was taking
place around him.  Apart from the article he would prepare for the next
day's issue of _The Telegram_; he was more than usually interested in
what he beheld.  As he watched several bronzed and grizzly veterans of
many a long trail and wild stampede, a desire entered into his heart to
join them in their new adventure.  He would thus find excitement enough
to satisfy his restless nature, and perhaps at the same time share in
the golden harvest.

This longing, however, was held in check by the thought of the story he
had heard the evening before, and also by the hope of seeing again the
face he had beheld for a few fleeting seconds at the street crossing.
In fact, he had thought more of it than of the mysterious disappearance
of Henry Redmond.  For the greater part of the night and all the next
day the girl had been in his mind.  He tried to recall something more
about her, the color of her hair, how she was dressed, and whether she
was tall or short.  But he could remember nothing except the face which
alone stood out clear and distinct.  Several times during the day he
had been on the point of transferring his impressions to paper, but he
always deferred action, preferring to muse upon the beautiful vision he
had seen and to dream of meeting her again.  She must still be in the
city, he reasoned, and should he go away now his chance of finding her
would be lost forever.  That he would find her he had not the slightest
doubt, for among the crowds that passed daily along the streets he
would surely see her, and when he did--well, he was not certain what
would happen.  Anyway, he would know more about her than at present.
He was standing watching an old man with a long gray beard and wavy
hair falling below a broad-brimmed slouch hat.  He was evidently a
prospector, for he bore a good-sized pack across his right shoulder,
and was dressed as if for the trail, with a pair of coarse boots upon
his feet.  His figure was commanding, almost patriarchal, and Reynolds
watched him with much interest as he walked stately and deliberately up
the gangway.

As Reynolds turned from his observation of the old man, he gave a great
start, and his heart beat wildly, for there but a few feet from him was
the very girl he had seen at the street crossing.  She had just
alighted from an hotel auto, and was pointing out her baggage to one of
the cabin boys when Reynolds noticed her.  He leaned eagerly forward to
catch the sound of her voice, but the noise around him made this
impossible.  But he had a chance to feast his eyes upon her face, and
to note her neat dark-brown travelling suit which fitted so perfectly
her well-built erect figure.  She was of medium height, and carried
herself with complete assurance as one well accustomed to travel.  She
was apparently alone, for no one accompanied her as she presently went
on board the steamer.

Reynolds was all alert now, and his old-time enthusiasm returned.  She
was going north, and why should not he go too?  Once more thought and
action became welded, and finding that it would be three-quarters of an
hour before the steamer's departure, he hurried back to his boarding
house, gathered together his few belongings, including his artist's
outfit, thrust them into a grip, settled his board bill, and almost
raced to the _Telegram_ and _Evening News_ building, where he found the
editor who had just arrived for his nightly duties.

"I am off at once," he announced.  "How will that suit you?"

"Good for you!" was the pleased reply.  "Decided upon the Great Quest,
eh?"

"Yes, all settled, and away in twenty minutes."

"Where to?"

"Up north, to the edge of nowhere.  How will that do?"

"Found a clue?"  The editor was quite excited now.

"All the clue I need," was the evasive reply.  "I shall write as soon
as possible, telling of my wanderings.  So, good-by; I must be away."

"Have you enough money?"  The editor was on his feet now, grasping the
young man's hand in a firm grip.

"Yes, all that's necessary for the present.  If I need more I shall let
you know."

An hour later the _Northern Light_ was steaming steadily on her way.
Reynolds had been fortunate enough to obtain an upper berth, his
roommate being a young clerk destined for a branch bank in a northern
mining town.  Reynolds strolled about the boat hoping to catch a
glimpse of her who was much in his mind, but all in vain.  It rained
hard most of the next day, and the outside decks were uncomfortable.
It was toward evening that he saw her, walking slowly up and down the
hurricane deck abaft the funnel.  She was with the captain, a fine
looking, middle-aged man, and they seemed to be on very friendly terms,
for the girl was smiling at something her companion was saying.

Reynolds lighted a cigar and began to pace up and down on the opposite
side of the deck.  Others were doing the same, so no one paid any heed
to his presence.  A casual observer might have thought that the silent
young man took no interest in anything around him.  But Reynolds missed
hardly a movement of the girl but a few feet away.  He always kept a
short distance behind and was thus able to study her closely without
attracting attention.  She wore a raincoat, of a soft light material,
and her head was bare.  The wind played with her dark-brown hair, and
occasionally she lifted her hand and brushed back a wayward tress that
had drifted over her forehead.  At times he caught a glimpse of her
face as she swung around at the end of the beat, and it was always a
happy, animated face he beheld.

For about fifteen minutes this walk was continued, and Reynolds had
been unable to distinguish any of the conversation between the two.
But as they ended their promenade, and started to go below, they almost
brushed him in passing, and he heard the captain say, "Jack will be
home soon, and he will----"  That was all Reynolds was able to
overhear, and yet it was sufficient to cause him to stop so abruptly
that he nearly collided with a man a few steps behind.  Was all that
talk about Jack? he asked himself, and was that why the girl seemed so
happy in listening to her companion?  Was Jack the captain's son, and
did he have the first claim upon the girl?  Perhaps he was overseas,
and was expected home shortly.  No doubt the girl had been visiting his
people.

Such an idea had not occurred to Reynolds before, but as he thought it
all over that night as he sat silent in the smoking-room, it did indeed
seem most reasonable.  Why should he think any more about the girl? he
mused.  He had been a fool for allowing his heart to run away with his
head.  How could he for one instant imagine that such a girl would be
left until now without many admiring suitors, with one successful over
all the others?  And no doubt that one was Jack, whose name had fallen
from the captain's lips.

Although Reynolds felt that the girl was not for him, yet he could not
banish her from his mind.  She had aroused him from the paralysis of
indifference, for which he was most grateful.  He would make a
desperate effort not to be again enmeshed in such a feeling.  He would
throw himself ardently into the search for gold, and then turn his
attention to Henry Redmond, and strive to solve the mystery surrounding
the man.

After breakfast the next morning he went out on deck, and found the
girl already there comfortably seated in a large steamer chair.  She
had evidently been reading, but the book was now lying open upon her
lap, and her hands were clasped behind her head.  Reynolds caught the
gleam of a jewel on one of her fingers, and he wondered if it was an
engagement ring she was wearing.  Her eyes were looking dreamily out
across the water, away to a great fog-bank hanging and drifting over
the face of the deep.  Reynolds, too, looked, and the sight held him
spellbound.  The mass of fog slowly rose and rolled across the
newly-bathed sun.  Then it began to dissolve, and dim forms of trees
and islands made their appearance, growing more distinct moment by
moment.  The scene fascinated him.  It was truly a fairy world upon
which he was looking.

And as he looked, his eyes rested upon a dark speck just beneath the
overhanging fog.  For a few minutes it made no impression upon his
wandering mind.  But slowly he began to realize that the object was in
motion, and moving toward the steamer.  Then he saw something dark
being waved as if to attract attention.  He was all alert now, feeling
sure that someone was hailing the steamer.  In a few minutes she would
be past, when it would be too late to be of any assistance.

Turning almost instinctively toward the pilot-house, Reynolds' eyes
fell upon the captain, who was again talking to the girl.  Only for an
instant did he hesitate, and then walking rapidly along the deck, he
reached the captain's side and touched him lightly upon the arm.

"Excuse me, sir," he began, as the officer wheeled suddenly around.
"Someone seems to be signaling to you over there, just where that
fog-bank is lifting," and he pointed with his finger.

The captain and the girl both turned, and their eyes scanned the watery
expanse.

"Can you see anything, Glen?" the captain asked.  "My eyes must be
failing me."

"I do now," was the reply.  "Over there to the left," and she motioned
with her hand.  "I see it quite plainly.  It is a boat of some kind
with people in it, and they are waving to us."

"So it is!" the captain exclaimed.  "Who can it be?  However, we shall
soon find out."

He hurried away, and soon a long raucous blast ripped the air.  Then
the steamer swerved to the right and made for the small craft which was
now plainly visible.  Many of the passengers were already crowding the
rail, all greatly interested in this new diversion.

Reynolds stepped back and gave his place to another.  He could watch
the approaching boat just as well here, and at the same time study to a
better advantage the girl who was standing close to the rail.  He had
accomplished something, anyway, which was worth a great deal to him.
He had heard her speak and learned her name.  He liked "Glen," and it
seemed to suit her.  But Glen what?  He longed to know that, too.  Her
voice was soft and musical.  It appealed to him.  Yes, everything
seemed to be in harmony, he mused.  Name, voice, dress, and manner, all
suited the girl admirably.  It was a happy combination.

From where he was standing he could watch her unobserved.  He could see
the side of her face nearest to him, and he noted how flushed it was
with excitement.  She was keenly interested in the approaching boat,
and her eyes followed it most intently.

The steamer had already slowed down, and its movement now was scarcely
perceptible.  Reynolds looked at the small approaching craft, and to
his surprise he saw that it was a large canoe, being paddled by four
stalwart Indians.  There were several white men on board, although he
could not distinguish their faces.  Who could they be, and where had
they come from? he wondered.  A man standing nearby asked the same
question, though no one seemed to be able to give a satisfactory answer.

By this time the canoe was so near the steamer that from his position
Reynolds could see nothing more owing to the men crowding the rail.  He
glanced toward the girl just as she turned suddenly away from the side
of the steamer and walked rapidly across the deck.  She seemed much
agitated, and the flush had fled her face, leaving it very white.  All
this Reynolds briefly noted, and when she had disappeared through a
door leading into the observation room, he stood wrapped in thought,
wondering as to the cause of the remarkable change that had so suddenly
taken place.  Was there some mystery connected with her life, and had
she recognized someone in the canoe she did not wish to meet?  He
determined to learn what he could about the picked-up men, and to keep
his eyes and ears open for further developments.




CHAPTER III

A BIG BLAZIN' LAUGH

"Fine sight that, sir."

Reynolds turned sharply at these words, and saw the old man with the
long beard and flowing hair standing at his left.  Although he himself
was almost six feet in height, he seemed small by the side of this
stranger, who was looking calmly out over the water toward the
fog-bank, which had now lifted and was slowly dissolving.

"Ye don't see the likes of that often," he continued, "an' it ain't
everyone who kin read its meanin', either."

"What do you see there?" Reynolds asked, more interested in hearing the
man's deliberate drawl than the meaning of the fog-bank.

"Wall, it seems to me that a fog-bank hasn't a ghost of a chance fer
life when the sun hits it good an' hard."

"That one hasn't, anyway," Reynolds replied, as he watched the cloud
gradually thinning and drifting away.

"It's the same with all clouds, sir, an' it makes no difference whether
they're hangin' over the water or over one's life.  They're bound to
disappear when the sun gits after 'em."

"Do you think so?"

"I sartinly do.  Why, there isn't a cloud but'll gather up its skirts
an' run when a good big blazin' laugh gits after it.  An' that's what
we want in this world to-day; more cheerfulness, more of the joy of
life."

"Have you tried it?"

"Y'bet I have, an' it's allus worked like a charm.  I could tell ye of
many a squabble that's been settled by the means of a smilin' face an'
a good hearty laugh.  There's nuthin' like it."

"You're an optimist, I see," and Reynolds smiled for the first time in
many a day.  He could not help it, for this stranger radiated a
stimulating influence of cheerfulness and goodwill.

"I try to be, sir, an' when I see a fog-bank hoverin' over people like
that one did out yonder a little while ago, I consider it my duty to
act like the sun an' drive it away.  Then, there's good feelin' all
around, 'specially among the ones who were under the cloud."

"I imagine it is that way with those men who have just been picked up.
They must feel happy over the lifting of the fog at the right moment."

"That's jist what I mean.  It meant much to them."

"Do you know who they are?"

"Miners, no doubt, who wish to go north.  They've been prospecting
mebbe, on some of the islands along the coast, an' started out to hail
a passin' steamer.  They do it at times."

"And the steamers always pick them up?"

"Sure; they wouldn't go by without takin' 'em on board, no matter who
they are.  It's the great Brotherhood of man, ye see, back of it all,
an' ye'll find that spirit stronger the farther north ye go.  It's
different here from what it is in the big cities, an' the more ye
preach of that the better."

"Preach!  What do you mean?" Reynolds asked in amazement.

"You be one of them missionary chaps, ain't ye?"

Reynolds laughed.  "What makes you think so?"

"Dunno, 'cept yer solemncoly face, an' the way yer dressed.
Missionaries ginerally come north lookin' about as you do, to turn the
sinner from the error of his way, an' to convart the heathen Injun.
They're not overly pop'lar up thar."

"Why not?"

"Oh, they've too high an' mighty notions about the way men should live;
that's the trouble."

"And so you think they should make themselves popular with the men, eh?
In what way?"

"By bein' one of 'em, an' not bein' too hard on what they do."

"Do you think that their great Master ever said that they would be
popular, and that they were to please all men?" Reynolds defensively
asked.

"I dunno.  Guess I can't recall anything He ever said about the
matter," and the old man scratched his head in perplexity.

"Didn't He tell His first disciples that they would be hated of all men
for His name's sake when He sent them forth to do His work?"

"I believe He did," was the reluctant assent.  "But that was a long
time ago.  Things are different now."

"Only outwardly, remember.  The heart is the same in all ages; you
can't change that.  If it is evil and full of vileness, it is bound to
hate the good.  Surely you know that."

"Then you really are one of them missionary chaps?" and the old man
eyed Reynolds curiously.

"No, I am not," was the emphatic reply.

"But ye quote Scripter like a parson, though.  I thought mebbe ye was."

"Is it necessary to be a parson to know something about the Bible?
Isn't this a Christian land?  Why shouldn't I know something about the
greatest Book in the world?  My mother taught it to me when I was a
child, and I learned a great deal about it when I went to Sunday
school.  I did not value it so much then, but when over in France, with
death on all sides, much of it came back to me, and I honestly confess
it was a great comfort."

"An' so ye was over thar, young man?  Wall, that's sartinly
interestin'.  Fer how long?"

"Nearly four years.  I enlisted at the beginning of the war."

"An' come through all right?"

"Look," and Reynolds bared his left arm, showing a great scar.  "I have
several more on my body, some worse than that."

"Ye don't tell!  My, I'm glad I've met ye.  Got some medals, I s'pose."

Reynolds made no reply, as he already felt ashamed of himself for
having told this much.  It was not his nature to speak about himself,
especially to a stranger, and he was determined to say nothing about
the medals he had received for conspicuous bravery, and which he
carried in his breast pocket.

"Do you smoke?" he suddenly asked.

"Yes; an old hand at it.  Good fer the nerves."

"Well, suppose we go and have a smoke now.  I am just in the mood for
one myself."

Together they made their way to the smoking-room, which was situated
well aft.  It was partly filled with men, smoking, chatting, and
playing cards.  The air was dense with various brands of tobacco,
making it impossible to see clearly across the room.  No one paid any
heed to the two as they entered, sat down in one corner of the room,
filled and lighted their pipes.  Reynolds noted that his companion
became suddenly silent, and seemed to be deeply interested in four men
playing cards at a small table a short distance from where they were
sitting.

"Do you play?" Reynolds asked, thinking that the old man might be fond
of cards.

"No," was the brief and absent-minded reply.

Reynolds said no more, but watched the four men.  His attention was
chiefly centered upon one who was facing him, and who was doing most of
the talking.  He was a young man, with a dark moustache and black curly
hair.  He played with keen interest and in a lofty dominating manner.
Reynolds did not like his appearance, and the more he studied him the
stronger became his repugnance.  It was not only the low brutal face
that compelled this feeling, but the coarse language that reeked from
his lips.  This so disgusted Reynolds that he was about to leave the
room, when in an instant a commotion took place among the players.
They sprang to their feet, and a miniature babel ensued.

"You're cheating."

"I'm not."

"You're a liar."

These were some of the terms hurled forth in sharp rasping sentences,
and it seemed as if blood must surely be shed ere the confusion ended.
As the word "liar" rang out, a sudden silence followed, and at once
hands rested upon butts of revolvers concealed in four hip-pockets.
But before they were drawn a peculiar noise broke the stillness, which
caused Reynolds to start, for the sound came from the old prospector's
lips.

"Me-o-o-o-ow.  Me-o-o-o-ow.  Bow-wow-wow.  Bow-wow-wow."

So unexpected was this interruption that all in the room stared in
amazement, and even the four angry men turned to see whence the sound
came.  So perfect was the imitation, and so humorous the expression
upon the face of the old man, that the onlookers burst into a hearty
laugh, which caused the four inflamed players to shuffle uneasily, and
to look sheepishly at one another.  Then their mouths expanded into a
grin, and the storm was over.

The curly-haired man at once left his place and strode over to where
the prospector was sitting.

"Frontier Samson!" he exclaimed, gripping him firmly by the hand.  "Is
it really you?"

"Sure, it's me, all right, Curly.  Who else did ye think it was; me
ghost?"

"Not when I heard that cat-call, an' the bow-wow."

"Heard 'em before, eh?  Guess this isn't the first scrape I've got ye
out of, is it?"

"Should say not.  But where in h---- did ye drop from, Sam?  I didn't
know ye were on board."

"Oh, I'm jist on a visit from the outside.  An' it's mighty lucky that
I'm here, or else I don't know what 'ud have happened.  Better leave
cards alone, Curly, if ye can't play without fightin'.  They make
people act like a bunch of kids."

"It was those d---- fools' fault, though, Sam."

"Thar, now, don't make excuses an' blame others, Curly.  That's jist
what kids allus do.  An' cut out them unholy words.  There might be a
parson around."

Curly flung himself down upon a seat, and lighted a cigarette.  He cast
a furtive glance at Reynolds, thinking that perhaps he might be the
"parson."

"What have ye been doin', Curly?" the old man asked.  "An' why was ye
driftin' out under that fog-bank?  Ye nearly got left, let me tell ye
that."

"I know we did, and I thought that d----, excuse me, Sam," he
apologized, as he again glanced toward Reynolds.  "I mean, I thought
that the fog-bank would never lift.  We've been doing some of the
islands for several months."

"Strike anything?"

"Nothing, an' nearly starved in the bargain.  If it hadn't been fer an
Indian mission, we wouldn't be alive now."

"Then missionaries are of some use after all, Curly.  You was allus
hard on 'em, if I remember right."

"Umph!  They're all right when one's starving.  If they'd only leave
the Gospel dope out, it wouldn't be so bad."

"Got a dose of it, eh?"

"Should say I did.  Morning, noon an' night I had to go to church with
the Indians.  I've had enough to last me the rest of me life.  Say,
weren't we glad to get away!"

"Goin' north agin?  I thought ye was through, up thar?"

"So did I.  But we heard of the new strike at Big Draw, an' decided to
try our luck once more."

"Think ye'll hit it this time?"

"I hope so.  But it isn't altogether the gold that's taking me back.
There's something more attractive."

"So I imagined."

"I thought you would understand."  Curly's voice was eager now.
"She'll not escape me this time.  Gad, she's a beaut!  But as wild as a
hawk."

"An' so ye think ye'll corner her, eh?"  There was a peculiar note in
Samson's voice which Reynolds was quick to detect, but which Curly
missed.

"Just you wait an' see," the latter reminded.  "That old cuss thinks
he's got a regular Gibraltar behind those hills with his lousy Indians.
But I'll show him a thing or two."

"Ye've never been thar, have ye?" Samson queried.

"Never.  But the bird comes out of her nest sometimes, ye know, an'
then----"

"You'll be the hawk, is that it?" Samson asked as the other paused.

"Oh, I'll be around," Curly laughed.  "One doesn't run across the likes
of her every day, an' she's the gold I'm really after."

"Wall, all I kin say is this," the prospector replied, as he rose
slowly to his feet, "that ye'd better be mighty keerful, young man.
That Giberalter, as ye call it, is guarded by a lion that ain't to be
fooled with.  He's got claws that reach from sun-up to sun-down as
several smarter ones than you have found out to their sorrow.  Leave
him alone, an' he'll bother nobody.  But interfere with that lass of
his, an' the hull north won't be big enough to hide ye.  That's my
warnin', an' if yer not a fool ye'll heed it."

Reynolds had a good long sleep that afternoon.  He had been much
disturbed the night before by several men in the next room, who shouted
and sang until early morning.  During the evening he went out upon
deck, well forward, as he wished to be alone, and away from the men who
were drinking and gambling in other parts of the steamer.  It was a
beautiful evening, with scarcely a ripple disturbing the surface of the
water.  The air was mild, and when the sun went down, the moon rose big
and cheery above the dense dark forest away to the right.  Reynolds
thought over the conversation he had heard between Frontier Samson and
the man known as "Curly."  That the latter was a scoundrel he had not
the slightest doubt.  His face alone would have betrayed him even if he
had not spoken a word.  He was curious concerning the reference to
"Gibraltar," the "lion," and the "lass."

As he thus sat and mused, listening to the zip-zip of the vessel as it
cut through the water, his mind naturally drifted off to her of the
street crossing incident.  He wondered what had become of her.  Why had
she left the railing in such a hurry, and what was the cause of the
sudden pallor that had come upon her face?  Had Curly anything to do
with her agitation, and was it possible that she was the girl to whom
he referred?  As this idea flashed into his mind, he sat bolt upright
in his chair.  It did seem reasonable when he considered it.  In fact,
it gave him a certain degree of pleasure as well.  If his suspicions
were true, then the girl needed protection from that brute, and was it
not his duty to keep a sharp lookout, and if necessary to protect her
from all harm?

And as he thought of this, the girl herself came upon deck, and walked
at once toward the bow close to the tall flag-staff, which pointed
upwards like a quivering slender needle.  Reynolds could see her
plainly as she stood looking straight before her.  A cloak was thrown
carelessly over her shoulders, and her head was bare.  What a perfect
picture of gracefulness she presented to the admiring young man as he
watched her by the light of the full-orbed moon.  How he longed to go
forward, speak to her, and listen to her voice.  But, no, he did not
dare to do that.  He must adore her at a distance and wonder what she
was thinking about.

Presently an idea leaped into his mind that thrilled his entire being.
He was pushing out into the Great Unknown, with all its dangers and
uncertainties.  But standing there before him was his guiding star, the
one girl in all the world who unconsciously had inspired and stirred
him to action.  Was she really to be his guiding star?  Anyway, the
sight of her standing before him seemed to be a favorable portent of
the future.

For almost half an hour the girl stood silently at the bow, apparently
unconscious that anyone was near.  Reynolds remained a long time after
she had gone.  It was good to be there on such a night, with no one to
disturb him, alone with a fair vision before him, and a sweet peace in
his soul.




CHAPTER IV

BEYOND THE GREAT WHITE PASS

"All aboard!"

The train was on the point of pulling out from the little coast town of
Skagway on its run inland of one hundred and ten miles.  There had been
much bustle and excitement ever since the steamer landed early that
morning.  But now everything was in readiness, the signal had been
given, and the train began to move.

Reynolds was comfortably seated and looking out of the open window,
when Frontier Samson came and sat down by his side.  The old prospector
was much out of breath and panting heavily.

"I nearly missed the train," he explained.  "She was movin' when I
swung on board."

"Sight-seeing, eh?" Reynolds queried.

"That's about it, I guess.  Watchin' a mix-up, an' gittin' Curly out of
a scrape.  That's what delayed me."

"What was the trouble?"

"Oh, the same old story.  Curly kin never mind his own bizness.  He's
allus pokin' his nose into other people's affairs.  He's too sassy."

"Where is he now?"

"In the smoker.  I had to drag him along with me, an' that's what made
me late."

"Why didn't you leave him behind?"

"I should have done that.  But it's the Brotherhood, ye see, that made
me do it.  That feller ain't safe runnin' at large, an' somebody's got
to keep an eye on him, 'specially up here."

"It seems to me that you have undertaken a big task," and Reynolds
smiled.

"Indeed I have an' no one knows that better'n me.  If I had my way,
he'd be shipped off to some Penitentiary.  That's the right place for
the likes of him.  An' he'll land thar some day, as sure as guns.  But
in the meantime somebody's got to watch him."

Reynolds made no reply.  In fact, he hardly heard his companion's last
words, for his eyes were riveted upon the wonderful sights around him.
Above towered the peaks of the White Pass Range, grand and majestic.
Away to the left, and far above, could be seen the railway track,
twisting along the mountain side like a thin dark thread.  It seemed
incredible that the train could make such a tremendous climb.

"Do we go up there?" he asked in amazement.

"Sure.  We'll be thar in a short time, but it takes four engines,
though, to tug us up.  Then ye'll see something that'll make ye wonder.
Guess thar's nuthin' like it in the hull world.  We'll go up three
thousand feet, an' it'll be the nearest to heaven that some of the
chaps on this train'll ever be.  Jist look at that, now!"

Reynolds was indeed looking.  Far down below a few cabins appeared like
little toy houses, while away beyond could be seen the blue cold waters
of the North Pacific.  The air was becoming keen.  But it was bracing
and stimulating.

"Say, I'd like to paint that!" he mused half aloud.  "It is grand,
stupendous, appalling!  And what a work to build this road!  How was it
ever done!"

"It sartinly was, young man.  It cost a mint of money, to say nuthin'
of the lives sacrificed.  Thar was some mighty bad accidents on this
bit of road, though thar was some funny ones, too.  I often have a good
laugh to meself whenever I think of one of the stories that was told."

"What was it?" Reynolds asked.  He was interested in everything now.

"Wall, ye see, the company that built this road was considered mighty
mean, an' ground the men down to the last cent.  One day a big blast
went off before its time, an' a feller was blown high into the air.
Everybody thought fer sure that thar wouldn't be a speck of him left.
But strange to say, in about fifteen minutes he came down pat on his
feet, an' but fer a few bruises an' a bad shakin' up he was as chipper
as ye please.  He got another shock, though, at the end of the week
which nearly put him out of bizness."

The old man paused, and a smile overspread his face as he gazed
thoughtfully out of the window.

"Yes," he continued, "it sartinly was some shock, an' no mistake.  When
he went to the office to be paid fer his week's work, he found that the
company had docked him two-bits fer the fifteen minutes he was absent
on that air-trip when the blast went off.  Now, what d'ye think of
that?"

"Close shaving, I should say," was the reply.  "It's a good yarn,
though, and worth remembering.  But, my, isn't that a wonderful sight!"
And Reynolds motioned to the great mountains away in the distance.  "We
seem to be surrounded by them."

"So we are, young man.  Ye can't escape 'em in the north any more'n ye
kin git clear of the sky-scrapers in New York.  But them over thar are
the work of the Almighty, an' a grand job He made of 'em.  This hull
land reminds me of a big cathedral; the woods an' valleys are the
aisles, an' the mountains are the spires pointin' man to heaven.  I
tell ye, it's a great place out alone on the hills to worship.  Yer not
cramped thar, an' it doesn't matter what kind of clothes ye have on.
It's wonderful the sights ye see an' the things ye hear.  Talk about
music!  Why, ye have the finest in the world when nature's big organ
gits to work, 'specially at night.  I've shivered from head to toe when
the wind was rippin' an' roarin' through the woods, down the valleys,
an' along the mountain passes.  That's the music fer me!"

"You seem to love this country," Reynolds remarked, as he noted the
intense admiration upon his companion's face.

"I sartinly do, young man.  It grips me jist as soon as I cross this
range.  Thar's nuthin' like it to my way of thinkin', though it takes
ye years to find it out.  Yet, it doesn't altogether satisfy the soul,
although it helps.  Thar's something within a man that needs more'n the
mountains an' the wonderful things around him.  But, thar, I must see
what Curly's doin'.  He may be up to some more mischief."

Although Reynolds was much interested in the scenery and in listening
to the philosophy of the old prospector, yet his mind turned
continually to Glen, for it was by that name he now thought of her.  He
knew that she was on the train, for he had seen her as she stepped
aboard but a few minutes before it left the coast.  She had passed
close to where he was standing, carrying a grip in her hand.  He had
caught sight of the leather tag fastened to the handle of the grip, and
had strained his eyes in a futile effort to read the name written
thereon.  He was determined in some manner to find out what that name
was, as he feared lest he should lose her altogether when the journey
by rail was ended.  He must have something more definite than the one
word Glen.

This opportunity was afforded him when he entered the principal hotel
of the little town of Whitehorse at the terminus of the railway.  It
was just across the street from the station, and when he arrived at the
office she was there before him, and about to enter her name in the
hotel register.  He stood by her side and watched her write.  It was a
firm sun-browned hand that held the pen, and she wrote in a rapid
business-like way.  "Glen Weston" were the only words Reynolds saw
there as he wrote his own name a minute later below hers.  She had not
even mentioned where she was from--that space was left blank.  He also
noticed that the hotel clerk seemed to know who she was, for he was
more affable to her than to anyone else.  She asked him if her father
had yet arrived, and she appeared disappointed when he answered in the
negative.

The name "Glen Weston" kept running through Reynolds' mind all that
evening.  He liked it, and it suited her admirably, so he thought.  But
who was she, and where was she going?  That was what he wished to know.

The town of Whitehorse was of considerable interest to Reynolds as he
strolled that evening through its various streets.  It was a surprise
to him as well, for he had not expected to find such a settled
community.  He had imagined that all such towns in the north were wild
and almost lawless places, abounding in desperate characters, ready to
shoot on the slightest provocation.  But here all was order, and it was
little different from one of the many small conventional towns in
Eastern Canada.  There were several up-to-date stores, a large post
office, bank, churches, and comfortable dwelling houses, though many of
the latter were built of logs.  The Royal Northwest Mounted Police had
their large barracks at the rear of the town under the brow of a high
hill, where all day long the flag of the clustered crosses floated from
its tall white staff in the centre of the square.

It was the time of year when the light of day reaches far into the
night, and deep darkness is unknown.  The sun merely dips for a few
hours below the mountain Crests, and skims along the horizon, thus
illuminating the western sky, and holding back the heavy draperies of
night.  The light on the far-off ranges and the glory of the distant
heavens fascinated Reynolds.  He had beheld many beautiful sunsets, but
never such a one as this, and his entire soul was stirred within him.

Leaving the level of the town, he climbed the hill, and there on the
edge of the steep bank he feasted his eyes upon the wonderful panorama
stretched out before him.  Like a silver thread the river wound its
sinuous way between its steep banks, and faded from view amidst its
setting of dark firs and jack-pines; around rose the mountains, their
great sides either bathed in the glow of evening, or lying sombre and
grim, telling of crouching valleys and funnel-like draws from which the
light of day had retreated.  And below lay the little town, silent save
for the occasional bark of a dog, or the shrill voices of children away
to the right.

For some time Reynolds remained here.  He was in no hurry to go
elsewhere, for the evening was mild and conducive to thought.  There
was nothing to take him back to the hotel, and he preferred to be out
of doors.  Just what he was to do next he had no clear idea.  He knew
that somewhere out from this town was the new mining camp for which he
had started.  But where it was and how to reach it he had not the
faintest knowledge.  In truth, he had never been sufficiently
interested to make any inquiries, even from Frontier Samson.  What had
become of the prospector, he wondered, as he had not seen him since his
arrival in town.  And where was Glen?  He had followed her this far,
and was he to lose her after all?  She had aroused him to action, and
caused him to take this long and apparently foolish journey.  But he
had not spoken a word to her, and so far as he knew she was totally
unaware of his existence.  He smiled at the thought, and wondered what
his friend, the editor, would say if he knew of it.  And what about his
search for the missing man, Henry Redmond?  Instead of throwing himself
earnestly and actively into the quest he was frittering away his time,
following the will-o'-the-wisp of a fancy, and going daft over a mere
slip of a girl who moved serenely apart from his world of thought and
being.  He called himself a fool and chided himself over and over
again.  But for all that, he was unable to tear her out of his heart
and mind.  She seemed to belong to him, and to no one else.

"I believe that my experiences in France have affected my brain," he
muttered, as he at length rose to his feet.  "I am sure I was not like
this before the war.  But here I am now dazzled and mystified by a fair
face, a pair of sparkling eyes, and the charm of a name.  This will
never do.  I must shake off this fascination, or I shall be good for
nothing."

He walked rapidly down the hill, and then along a trail that wound
through a thicket of small fir trees.  This brought him in a few
minutes to one of the streets leading straight to the river.  He walked
slower now, much interested in the quaint log houses, with here and
there a miner's or a prospector's tent.  Presently he saw before him a
large building, with galvanized roof and sides.  People were entering
the place, and drawing nearer, the sound of music fell upon his ears.
A band was playing, he could easily tell, and it was dancing music at
that.

Reaching the building, Reynolds paused and listened.  The music was
good, the best he had heard in a long time.  Through an open door he
could see men playing billiards and pool.  It was a lively and an
attractive scene, which caused him to enter and stand for a while near
the door watching the games.  No one paid any attention to him, and
from what he observed there were others like himself, strangers, who
found the time hanging heavily on their hands, and had dropped into the
place for the sake of companionship.  There were several large tables,
and these were all occupied by eager players.  Nearby was a bar, where
drinks of various kinds were being served.  The room was brilliantly
lighted by electricity, and the whole atmosphere of the place was most
congenial.

At one end of the billiard room were two doors, and here a number of
people were standing watching the dancing that was going on in the main
part of the building.  Reynolds presently joined them, and he was
greatly surprised at the size of the room, and the number of people
upon the floor.  There was a gallery immediately overhead, and here the
band was placed.

For a few minutes Reynolds stood and watched the dancers in a somewhat
indifferent manner.  He learned from a man standing by his side that
this building belonged to a town club, and that such dances were not
uncommon, at which most of the people attended.

At first Reynolds could not recognize anyone he knew, but as he
watched, he gave a great start, for there but a short distance away was
Glen, and her partner was none other than the rascal, Curly.  He could
hardly believe his eyes, and he followed them most intently as they
moved about the room.  He felt certain now that Glen was the girl
mentioned by Curly on the steamer in his conversation with Frontier
Samson.  He had found her, and was it to her liking? he wondered.  He
recalled her pale face and agitated manner as Curly boarded the vessel
along the coast.  Was he the cause of her distress, or was it someone
else?  It seemed then as if she wished to keep clear of the fellow, and
her seclusion during the remainder of the voyage lent color to this
idea.  But here she was dancing with him, and apparently enjoying
herself.  All this puzzled Reynolds as he stood there, unheeding
everything else save those special two.

When the music ceased, Glen and Curly walked across the room and sat
down but a short distance from the door.  Reynolds could see the girl's
face most plainly now, and he could tell at a glance that she was
unhappy.  Curly, on the other hand, was very animated and did all of
the talking.  He was speaking in a low voice and seemed very much in
earnest.  Occasionally the girl shook her head, and looked uneasily
around as if fearful lest someone should overhear what was being said.
At length, however, as she glanced to her right, her face brightened,
and the light of joy leaped into her eyes.  Reynolds also turned his
head, and he was surprised to see, standing not far away, a tall and
powerfully-built Indian.  Where he had come from Reynolds had not the
least idea, but there he was, clad in a soft buckskin suit, motionless,
and heeding no one except the young girl sitting by Curly's side.  His
placid face relaxed a little, however, as Glen moved swiftly to where
he was standing and spoke to him in a low voice.  The Indian merely
nodded in reply, and without even glancing around upon the curious
watchers in the room, he at once followed the girl as she passed out of
the building through a side door which opened upon the street.




CHAPTER V

COMRADES OF THE TRAIL

There was no wild stampede to the Big Draw mining camp on Scupper
Creek, where gold had been discovered.  There had been so many such
reports in the past which proved but flurries, that many of the
old-timers became sceptical, and waited for further developments.
There were some, however, who were always on the lookout for anything
new, and the hope of making a strike induced them to hasten away at the
least information of any discovery.  These drifted forth in little
groups by the way of the river and mountain passes.  Among such there
were always newcomers, men from the outside, as well as miners who had
left the country years before.

It was with the latest arrivals that Reynolds made his way into Big
Draw.  He was accustomed to life in the open, and his recent experience
of camp life in France served him in good stead now.  He had just
himself to look after, and, accordingly, he did not need a large
outfit.  He also learned that provisions could be procured at the
mining camp, where a store had been established.  He, therefore, took
with him only what was absolutely necessary, such as a small tent, a
few cooking utensils, a good rifle, and sufficient food to last him for
several days.  A steamer would carry him part of the way, while the
rest of the journey would be made overland on foot.

After her departure from the dance that night, Reynolds saw nothing
more of Glen.  He found that she had left the hotel, but where she had
gone he did not know.  He inquired of the clerk, and was answered with
a curt "Don't know."  He wondered who the Indian could be.  There
seemed to be a mutual understanding between him and the girl, at any
rate, and they must have departed together.  During the remainder of
his stay in town he had wandered about the streets, with the faint hope
that he might again see the girl, or learn something as to her
whereabouts.

Frontier Samson had also disappeared, and no one seemed to know
anything about him.  Reynolds did not mind asking about the old
prospector, as it was different from enquiring about Glen.  In fact,
the girl had become so real to him and such a vital part of his very
existence that should he speak of her to others he might betray his
deep concern.

During the voyage down river he thought much about her and tried to
imagine who she really was and what had become of her.  The idea even
suggested itself that she might be that stolid Indian's wife.  Strange
things often happened in the north, so he had read, and this might be
one of them.  He banished the thought, however, as too ridiculous, and
beyond the bounds of probability.

The voyage was an uneventful one to Reynolds, who kept much to himself
and did not join his companions at cards, which were played day and
night.  At times there was considerable roughness, though no shooting.
Curly was there, and enjoying himself to his heart's content.  He
played most of the time, losing and winning in turn.  Reynolds often
sat and watched him as he played, wondering where the fellow had first
met Glen and what he knew about her.  He had never spoken to the
rascal, and had no inclination to do so.  But several times glancing up
from his cards Curly noticed Reynolds' eyes fixed intently upon him.
Although he had found out that the quiet, reserved man was not a
"parson," yet he knew that he had been with Frontier Samson, and he was
curious to know what the old prospector had told him about his career.
His record was so black that he naturally became suspicious until he at
length imagined that the young man with the steady unswerving eyes was
following him north with some special object in view.  The idea annoyed
him, although he said nothing, but went on with his game.

It took the little steamer some time to reach her destination, as she
had to buck a heavy current part of the way.  When she at length tied
up at the landing where the trail over the mountain began, the
passengers scrambled quickly ashore, and started at once upon their
hard journey, carrying heavy loads upon their backs.  With their long
trip of several thousand miles almost at an end, the excitement of the
quest increased, and eagerly and feverishly they pressed forward, each
anxious to be the first of the party to reach the mining camp.

But Reynolds was in no hurry.  He had not the same incentive as the
others, and so long as his supply of food lasted he was as contented on
the trail as anywhere else.  His pack was heavy and the day promised to
be very warm.  He preferred to be alone, away from the insipid chatter
and profanity of his companions.  It would give him an opportunity to
think and to study the beauty of the landscape.

Leaving the landing, he walked along the trail, which in a short time
began to ascend around the right side of the mountain.  Here he stopped
and looked back.  The river wound below, and the little steamer was
lying at the bank discharging her cargo.  It was the last link between
him and the great outside world of civilization.  In a few hours it
would be gone, and for an instant there came to him the longing to go
back and give up his foolish quest.  He banished the temptation,
however, and plodded steadily on his way.  He had never turned back
yet, and he was determined that this should not be the first time.  He
had the unaccountable conviction that the lap of the future held
something in store for him, and that he would come into his own in due
time.

The higher he climbed the more wonderful became the view.  The trail
twisted around the mountain side, and from this vantage ground the
solitary traveller could look forth upon vast reaches of forest and
great wild meadows far below, with here and there placid lakes,
mirroring trees, mountain peaks, and billowy clouds.  The voices of his
companions had long since died away, and he was alone with the brooding
silence all around, and his own thoughts for company.

At noon he rested under the shade of an old storm-beaten tree, and ate
his meagre lunch.  This finished, he lighted his pipe and stretched
himself full length upon the mossy ground.  He was feeling more
contented than he had been in many a day.  The air was invigorating,
and a desire came over him to be up and doing.  His old indifference to
life seemed to slip away like a useless and impeding garment, leaving
him free for action.  He even thought with pleasure of mingling again
in the activities of civilization, and winning for himself a worthy
reputation.  He would make good in the north, and then go back and
surprise his friend, the editor, and all who knew him.

So strong was this feeling that he sat suddenly up, wondering what had
come over him to cause the subtle change.  "It must be the wild mystery
of this region," he mused.  "It is stimulating and impelling.  It may
be the spirit of the mountains, and the other grand things of nature.
They are carrying out the designs for which they were intended, and
perhaps they have silently rebuked me for being a traitor to the
highest that is in me.  But I shall show them a thing or two, if I am
not much mistaken."

Springing lightly to his feet, he continued his journey.  His step was
more buoyant, his heart lighter, and the pack seemed less heavy than
when he left the river.

He travelled all that afternoon, crossed the summit, and moved swiftly
down the opposite slope.  It was easy walking now, and he hoped to
reach the valley and there spend the night.  He believed that he should
find water among that heavy timber ahead of him, and thither he made
his way.  Neither was he mistaken, for when his steps at length began
to lag he heard the ripple of water drifting up the trail.  As he drew
nearer he smelled the smoke of a camp-fire, and the appetizing odor of
roasting meat.  "Somebody must be camping there," he mused, "and I may
have company.  I am sorry, but then it can't be helped."

The brook was a small one, shallow, and Reynolds easily sprang across.
Gaining the opposite bank, he peered among the trees, and to his
surprise he saw Frontier Samson squatting upon the ground, roasting a
grouse over a fire he had previously lighted.  The old prospector's
face brightened as the young man approached.

"My, y've been a long time comin'," he accosted.  "I thought mebbe ye'd
played out, tumbled down the side of the mountain, or a grizzly had
gobbled ye up.  What in time kept ye so long?"

"And where in the world did you come from?" Reynolds asked in reply, as
he unslung his pack and tossed it aside.  "I never expected to meet you
here."

"Ye didn't, eh?  Wall, ye never want to be surprised at anything I do.
I'm here to-day an' somewhere else to-morrow.  I'm allus on the move,
rovin' from place to place.  It's me nature, I guess."

"A rolling stone gathers no moss, so I've heard.  Is that the way with
you?" Reynolds asked, with a twinkle to his eyes.

"I may git no moss, young man, an' not become a fossil like some of the
fellers in big cities, but I git a heap of rubbin' with me rollin', an'
that keeps me brightened up."

"But how did you get here ahead of me?" Reynolds questioned.  "You were
not on the steamer, and I am certain you didn't walk."

Samson drew the grouse from the fire, and examined it critically.
Finding it not done to his satisfaction, he thrust it back again.

"Jist hand me that fryin'-pan, will ye?" and he motioned to his left.
"I want it handy when the bird's cooked.  Ye didn't expect to find a
supper here to-night, young man, did ye?" and he looked quizzically at
Reynolds.

"Indeed I didn't," was the emphatic reply.

"Neither did ye imagine that it 'ud be a grouse's bones ye'd be
pickin'.  Why, it's no tellin' where that bird was three days ago.  It
may have been fifty miles or more away, fer all we know.  But it's here
now, isn't it?"

"It looks very much like it," and Reynolds laughed.

"Wall, that's jist the way with many other things.  It's allus the
unexpected that happens, an' thar are surprises on every trail, as
ye'll larn if ye haven't done so already.  Meetin' me here is one of
'em, an' my movements are jist as unsartin an' mysterious as were them
of that bird which is now sizzlin' over this fire."

"But with not such an unhappy ending, I hope," and again Reynolds
smiled.

The prospector's eyes twinkled as he drew the bird from the fire, and
laid it carefully in the frying-pan.

"Guess it's done all right this time," he remarked.  "Now fer supper.
I'm most starved."

Reynolds was hungry, and he did full justice to the meal.  Samson had
some excellent sour-dough bread of which he was very proud.

"Made it last night," he explained, "an' it turned out better'n usual.
Thought mebbe I'd have company before long."

"Did you meet the others?" Reynolds asked.

"Oh, yes, I met 'em," Samson chuckled.

"Were they far ahead?"

"Y' bet, an' chatterin' like a bunch of monkeys.  Guess they're thar by
now."

"Were they surprised to see you?"

"H'm, they didn't see me.  I was settin' under a tree well out of
sight.  I didn't want to meet that crowd; they're not to my likin'.  I
jist wished to see if Curly was along."

"You seem to be keepin' a sharp eye on that fellow still," Reynolds
remarked.  He was anxious to draw the prospector out.  Perhaps he might
learn something about Curly's acquaintance with Glen.

"Yes, I do keep me eyes peeled fer Curly," Samson drawled, as he
finished his supper and pulled out his pipe.  "It's necessary, let me
tell ye that.  He ain't safe nohow."

"You have known him for some time, then?"

"Long enough to be suspicious of the skunk."

"He seems to be very friendly with you, though."

"Oh, he's got sense enough not to buck up aginst me.  An' besides, I've
yanked him out of many a nasty fix.  Most likely he'd been planted long
before this if I hadn't been around at the right moment."

"He's up here for more than gold, so I understand."

"How did ye larn that, young man?"  There was a sharp note in Samson's
voice.

"Oh, I merely overheard your conversation with him in the smoking-room
of the _Northern Light_.  That was all, but I drew my own conclusion."

"An' what was that?"

"Nothing very definite.  I simply inferred that he is after a girl
somewhere here in the north, and that she is so guarded by a lion of a
father that Curly hasn't much of a chance."

"An' so that's what ye surmised, is it?" the prospector queried.

"Am I right?"

"Guess yer not fer astray."

"Have you seen the girl?  Do you know her father?"

"Have I seen the girl?  Do I know her father?" the old man slowly
repeated.  "Yes, I believe I've seen her, all right.  But as fer
knowin' her father, wall, that's a different thing.  Frontier Samson
doesn't pretend to know Jim Weston; he never did."

"Weston, did you say?" Reynolds eagerly asked.

"That's what I said, young man.  The name seems to interest ye."

"It does.  When I registered at the hotel in Whitehorse, the name just
before mine was 'Glen Weston,' and the girl who wrote it came north on
the _Northern Light_.  Do you suppose she is Jim Weston's daughter?"

"She might be," was the somewhat slow reply.  "As I told ye before,
it's ginerally the unexpected that happens.  Anyway, ye can't tell much
by names these days."

"But Curly knows her, for I saw them together at a dance the night I
arrived in town."

"Ye did!"  The prospector took his pipe from his mouth and stared hard
at Reynolds.  "Are ye sure?"

"Positive.  Why, I was standing at the door watching the dance, when I
saw the two together upon the floor.  Later they came over and sat down
quite close to me.  Curly did most of the talking, and the girl seemed
quite uneasy.  She left shortly after with a fine-looking Indian, who
had evidently come for her.  I have not seen her since."

"So Curly was dancin' with her," Samson mused.  "Then she must be Jim
Weston's gal.  I wonder what the old man'll say when he hears about it?"

"How will he know?"

"Oh, he'll find out, all right.  There's nuthin' that misses him here
in the north."

"What will he do to Curly?"

"I wouldn't like to say at present.  That remains to be seen."

"Is this Jim Weston a desperate character?"

"The ones who have tried to fool with him say he is, an' I guess they
ought to know.  He's a holy terror when he gits goin', 'specially when
anyone's after that lass of his."

"The men up here all know about her, I suppose?"

"Should say so.  They're about crazy over her.  She's been the cause of
many a row, an' several shootin' rackets."

"Does she favor anyone?"

"Not as fer as I know.  She's in a class all by her lonesome, an' well
able to take care of herself.  She's not anxious fer lovers, so I
understand, at least, not the brand ye find up here.  She's some lass,
all right, an' whoever succeeds in winnin' her'll be a mighty lucky
chap."

"What does her father do?  Is he a miner?"

"It's jist hard to tell what Jim Weston does an' what he doesn't do.
No one seems to know fer sartin.  He lives like a lord on Big Lake, way
over yonder," and Samson motioned to the east.  "All the folks know
that he lives thar with his lass, guarded by a hull pack of Injuns.
But what he does an' what he doesn't do is a mighty problem."

"His daughter travels, though, and alone at that, doesn't she?"
Reynolds queried.

"Occasionally.  Jim's givin' her an eddication, so I hear.  She must be
comin' back now, as this is vacation time."

"But what happened to her, do you suppose, after the dance that night?"
Reynolds asked.  "She disappeared as if by magic, and I believe the big
Indian had something to do with it."

"How d'ye know she disappeared?" was the sudden and somewhat
embarrassing question.

Reynolds laughed, and his face flushed.  He knew that he had betrayed
himself, and that the prospector noted his confusion.

"Oh, I didn't notice her in town," he explained, "and I saw by the
register that she had left the hotel."

"So you're interested in her, too, are ye, young man?"

"I certainly am," was the candid confession.  "From the moment that I
first saw her at a street crossing in Vancouver she has been hardly out
of my mind.  I never saw any girl who affected me so much, and she is
the reason why I am here now."

"Ye don't tell!"  Samson tapped the ashes out of his pipe, and then
stretched himself full length upon the ground.  "Make a clean breast of
it, young man," he encouraged.  "I'm an old hardened chap meself, but I
do like to hear a real interestin' heart-story once in a while.  I git
sick an' disgusted listenin' to brutes on two legs, callin' themselves
men when they talk about women.  But when it comes to a clean young
feller, sich as I take you to be, tellin' of his heart-stroke, then
it's different, an' I'm allus pleased to listen."

And make a clean breast of it Reynolds did.  He was surprised at
himself for talking so freely as he told about his indifference to life
until he first saw Glen Weston.  It was easy to talk there in the
silence of the great forest, with the shadows of evening closing around
and such a sympathetic listener nearby.  He felt better when his story
was ended, for he had shared his heart feeling with one worthy of his
confidence, so he believed.

Frontier Samson remained silent for a few minutes after the confession
had been concluded..  He looked straight before him off among the trees
as if he saw something there.  Reynolds wondered what he was thinking
about, and whether he considered him a fool for becoming so infatuated
over a mere girl.

"I must seem ridiculous to you," he at length remarked.  "Would any man
in his senses act as I have?"

"Ye might do worse," was the quiet reply.  "I am sartinly interested in
what ye've jist told me, an' I thank ye fer yer confidence.  Me own
heart was stirred once, an' the feelin' ain't altogether left me yit.
But ye've got a difficult problem ahead of ye, young man.  Ye want that
lass, so I believe, but between you an' her stands Jim Weston."

"And the girl, why don't you say?"

"Sure, sure; she's to be considered.  But a gal kin be won when she
takes a fancy to a man of your make-up.  The trouble'll be with her
dad, an' don't fergit that.  But thar, I guess we've talked enough
about this fer the present.  I'm dead beat an' want some sleep.  We
must be away early in the mornin', remember."

"What! are you going my way?" Reynolds eagerly asked.

"Sure; if ye'd like to have me along.  I'm bound fer Big Draw meself."

It was just what Reynolds desired.  He liked the old prospector, and
now that he had confided to him his tale of love, he was drawn closer
than ever to this wandering veteran of the trails.




CHAPTER VI

A SHOT THAT TOLD

The life at Big Draw mining camp on Scupper Creek did not appeal to
Reynolds.  He watched the men at work upon their various claims, and
noted how meagre was their success.  They toiled like slaves, lured on
by the hope of a rich strike that never came.  The principal place of
meeting was the roadhouse, where "Shorty" Bill held sway.  He lodged
men, served meals, and conducted a bar.  He was a good-hearted fellow,
rough and uncouth, but well liked by all, and a genial companion.  It
was, therefore, but natural that at this place many of the men should
congregate at night, and at times during the day, for a brief respite
from their labors.  It was here, too, that news would occasionally
drift in from the outside world, which would be discussed by the men as
they played cards, the only amusement for which they seemed to care.
When the mail arrived, as it did at irregular intervals, all work on
the creek was suspended, and the men flocked to the roadhouse to
receive their scanty dole of letters and papers.  Shorty was the
custodian of the mail after its arrival, and he magnified his office.
With a quid of tobacco tucked away in his cheek, he would study each
address most carefully before calling forth the owner's name in a
stentorian voice.

Although mining was not in his line, Reynolds realised that he must do
something.  As he studied the life of the camp, and watched the men at
their work, he thought of his friend, the editor.  What an article he
might write for _The Telegram_ that would make the editor's eyes dance
with joy.  And he could do it, too, he felt certain, if he could only
get up sufficient energy.  He could add a number of sketches drawn from
life, which would be of much value.  He thought of all this as he
wandered aimlessly around, and as he lay at night in his little tent.

Several days thus passed without anything being done.  Frontier Samson
had again disappeared, and no one had any idea where he had gone.
Reynolds soon grew tired with having nothing to do, so he accordingly
turned his attention to the hills.  Fresh meat was urgently needed for
the camp, as the miners would not spare the time to go after it
themselves.  Wild sheep roamed the mountains, and Reynolds decided that
he could make more money by supplying the camp with meat than digging
for the uncertain gold.  It would also satisfy his desire to get away
into the wilds, where he could explore to his heart's content the
mysteries of the foothills, the great valleys, and the vast expanses of
wild meadows.

Reynolds at once put this plan into execution, and each morning he left
camp for a day in the hills.  At night he returned, loaded down with a
mountain sheep he had bagged, and which he readily sold for several
ounces of gold.  When not hunting, he would spend his time either
exploring some creek or lying on the hillside studying the scenery
around him, and imbibing impressions for the masterpieces he planned to
produce.

But it was not always the beauties of nature which occupied his mind.
No matter where he went Glen was ever with him.  In some mysterious
manner she seemed to be near, and he wondered if he should ever see her
again.  He often looked away to the east, for there Frontier Samson had
told him she lived.  How far off was the place? he asked himself, and
if he did find her what would her lion of a father do?  He was tempted
to make the try, anyway, and find out for himself if Jim Weston was as
desperate a character as he had been painted.  He could do no more than
kill him, and he did not fear death.  Had he not often faced it on the
field of battle, and why should he shrink now?

The more Reynolds thought about this, the more inclined he became to
make the effort.  It would be another grand adventure to once again go
over the top.  He might fail, but he would have the satisfaction of
making the attempt and showing Glen that he was not a coward.  He had
been longing for some wild undertaking, and here was the opportunity
right at hand.  It would be far more preferable than spending his time
around camp, or even hunting mountain sheep.

He was thinking seriously of this one beautiful afternoon as he lay on
the side of a deep ravine beneath a big weather-beaten fir tree.
Below, a brook gurgled, now very small owing to the dryness of the
season, but at times swollen by floods into a raging torrent.  Across
this ravine the mountain rose steep and rugged.  Along its side a
narrow trail wound, worn smooth by the feet of Indians, mountain sheep,
and other denizens of the wild.  Reynolds idly wondered whither the
trail led, and he was half tempted to start forth on an exploration
journey.  But it was so comfortable there on the hillside that he gave
up the idea, so, lying full upon his back with his hands under his
head, he watched the tops of the far-off mountains, and the clouds
drifting across the great savannas of the blue.

For some time he remained thus, thinking of Glen and recalling the last
time he had seen her.  He was trying once more to solve the mystery of
her disappearance from Whitehorse, when a sudden noise across the
ravine arrested his attention.  Casting his eyes in that direction,
great was his surprise to see a woman mounted on a magnificent horse
riding slowly down that crooked and dangerous trail.  Then his heart
leaped within him as he recognized Glen.  What was he to do? he
intuitively asked himself.  Should he remain where he was, or hurry
down to the brook to meet her?  But what right had he to go near her?
He had never spoken a word to her, and as she did not even know who he
was, she might resent his appearance.  Would it not be better for him
to remain where he was, and worship at a distance?  But was it
gentlemanly that he should stay there and watch her when she was
unaware of his presence?

And all this time Glen was coming slowly down that winding trail.
Reynolds watched her almost spell-bound.  She was a superb horsewoman,
and rode as one born to the saddle.  How graceful was her figure, and
how perfectly the noble animal she was riding responded to the lightest
touch of the rein as he cautiously advanced.  Reynolds could see the
girl most plainly now.  She sat astride the saddle, with the reins in
her right hand, and a small riding-whip in the other.  She wore
buckskin riding-breeches, a khaki-colored blouse, open at the throat,
and a soft felt hat of the same color.  The sleeves of her blouse were
rolled up to her elbows, thus exposing her strong, supple arms.  All
this Reynolds quickly noticed, and he believed that he had never before
beheld a more beautiful picture of true virile womanhood.

The horse was jet-black, and although walking on such a perilous and
difficult trail, it was easy to tell at the first glance that it was a
splendid thoroughbred.  The animal's carriage showed not only pride in
bearing such a beautiful rider, but a full sense of its responsibility
as well.  Fine were its proportions, reminding Reynolds more of some
victor of the race-track than the rough and hardy cayuses of the north.

And even as he looked and wondered from whence such a pair of creatures
had so unexpectedly come, the horse gave a terrified snort, threw up
its head, and recoiled back upon its haunches.  The cause of this
fright was at once apparent, for around a huge boulder a large hear had
suddenly made its appearance.  Reynolds saw at a glance that it was a
grizzly, the most formidable animal of the north, and the terror of the
trails.  Although greatly startled at meeting the horse and its rider,
the bear had no idea of retreating.  They were blocking his lordly
advance and it made him angry.  Its coarse savage growl sawed the air
as it moved menacingly forward.

All this Reynolds noted as he kneeled upon the ground, firmly clutching
his rifle with both hands.  Beads of perspiration stood out upon his
forehead as he watched the scene across the deep gulch.  The horse was
rearing wildly, and backing slowly up the trail.  There was no room to
turn around, so with remarkable coolness and self-control the fair
rider was keeping him pressed close to the bank and face to face with
the on-coming grizzly.  At any instant the horse might disregard the
guiding hand as well as the friendly words of encouragement, and in mad
terror attempt to swerve suddenly around, and thus hurl itself and
rider into the yawning abyss below.

All this passed through Reynolds' mind with lightning rapidity, and he
realised that there was not a moment to lose.  The bear was advancing
more rapidly now, and in a twinkling he might hurl his full weight of
eight hundred pounds of compact flesh, bone and muscle upon horse and
rider.  But ere it could do this, Reynolds brought the rifle to his
shoulder, took a quick, steady aim, and fired.  The bullet sped true
and pierced the bear's body just back of its powerful right shoulder.
The great brute stopped dead in its tracks.  It swayed for an instant,
and then with a roar that drove the recoiling horse almost frantic with
terror, it leaped sideways and plunged down the precipice, carrying
with it a small avalanche of rocks, earth, and rattling stones.

Reynolds watched the bear until it had plowed its way to the ravine
below, where it remained a confused and motionless heap.  Then a smile
of satisfaction over-spread his face as he lowered his rifle and lifted
his eyes to the trail above.  The girl had the horse under control now,
and was urging him slowly down the narrow way.  But the animal's fear
was most apparent, for he was advancing very timidly, his whole body
quivering with excitement.  The fair rider, however, seemed perfectly
at ease, and not the least disturbed at what had just happened.

After she had passed the spot where the bear had first appeared, she
reined up the horse and looked across to where Reynolds was standing
watching her most intently.  Waving her band in friendly salutation,
she called aloud:

"Come on over."

The young man obeyed with alacrity.  He sped down the hill, leaped
across the narrow stream, and hurried up the trail.  He was panting
heavily when he reached the girl's side, and the perspiration was
streaming down his face.  She looked at him curiously, and her eyes
danced with merriment.

"Do you always do that?" she questioned.

"Do what?" Reynolds asked in reply.

"Hustle like that at a woman's call?"

"I never did so before, simply because I never had the chance.  This is
a new experience to me."

The girl looked at him steadily for a few seconds.  Then she smiled and
held out her hand.

"I wish to thank you for what you have done for me to-day," she naïvely
told him.  "I am certain you saved my life.  My, that was a great shot
you made!"

Reynolds took her hand in his, and a thrill of joy swept through his
body.  It was not a soft hand, but brown and firm as if accustomed to
toil.  Her eyes met his and there was something in her look which
aroused the noblest within him.  It was an expression of admiration,
almost hero-worship, and confidence.  It said to him, "I know I can
trust you, for you are worthy.  You are different from most men in this
region.  Why are you up here?"

"I am glad that I happened to be near," Reynolds replied.  "I was
merely resting and enjoying the scenery when you and the bear appeared.
You must be more careful in the future, as I might not be around."

The girl gave a merry laugh, and brushed back a wayward tress of hair
that had drifted temptingly over her right cheek.

"I forgot to bring my gun," she explained, "and so the bear had me at
its mercy.  It is always the way, isn't it?  Something is sure to
happen when you are not prepared."

"And do you always ride alone in such dangerous places?" Reynolds asked.

"Oh, yes," and again the girl smiled.  "Midnight and I know the trails
well, don't we, old boy?" and she affectionately patted the horse's
sleek neck.  "But we came farther to-day than usual.  But it was worth
it, though, just to see that shot you made.  Won't daddy be interested
when I tell him about it."

"It was nothing much," Reynolds replied, although the sudden flush
which mantled his face told Glen that he was pleased at her words of
praise.  "I am used to shooting brutes.  In fact, it was my special
work for several years."

"Grizzlies?" the girl queried.

"Worse than grizzlies, and far more ugly, crafty, and brutal."

"My, I never heard of such creatures," and the girl's eyes grew big
with astonishment.

"Oh, I guess you have," and Reynolds smiled.  "They raise and train
them in Germany.  I met them in France."

"What! were you over there?"  Glen's interest and admiration were
intense now.

"Yes, almost from the beginning of the war.  I was a sharpshooter, you
see, and so had excellent practice."

"Oh!"  It was all the girl said, but it thrilled the young man's very
soul, and when his eyes again met hers a sudden embarrassment came upon
him.

"Do you live here?" he unexpectedly asked.

This question aroused Glen, and she at once assumed the defensive.  The
expression in her eyes changed, and she looked apprehensively around.

"A long way from here," she replied.  "I must be off at once."

"Let me go with you, Miss Weston," Reynolds suggested.  "You are
unarmed, and may meet another grizzly before you reach home."

"How do you know who I am?" the girl asked.  "You never saw me before,
did you?"

"We travelled up the coast together on the _Northern Light_," Reynolds
explained.  "I was the one who drew the captain's attention to that
canoe when the fog-bank lifted.  You remember that, I suppose."

"Indeed I do, and too well at that.  I wish that the fog had not lifted
just then.  Your eyes were too sharp that morning."

"But the men in the canoe were not sorry, though.  They seemed to be
mighty glad to be picked up."

"It is too bad that the fog lifted when it did," and the girl gave a
deep sigh.

"You know the men, then?"

"Only one, but he is enough."

"I saw you with him at the dance.  I suppose he is the one you mean."

"Where is he now?"  There was a note of sternness in the girl's voice.

"At Big Draw.  Any message I can take to him?"

The girl's face underwent a marvellous change.  It was like the sweep
of a cloud over a sunny landscape.  She touched Midnight with her whip,
and he sprang forward.  Down the trail he clattered at a reckless gait,
and when he had reached the level below his rider swung him sharply
around.  Then he bounded upward, and when near to where Reynolds was
standing, Glen pulled him up with a sudden jerk.

"There is no message," she announced.  "Why have you misjudged me?  Are
all men alike?  Thank you for what you did for me to-day.  Good-by."

She again lifted her whip and it was about to fall upon Midnight's
flank when Reynolds stepped forward and laid his right hand upon the
horse's bridle.

"Forgive me," he pleaded.  "I meant nothing.  I was merely joking.
Perhaps I understand more than you realise.  May I accompany you home?
It is not safe for you to travel alone, unarmed as you are, in a place
like this."

"No, no, you must not come," the girl protested.  "It is much safer for
me than it would be for you.  Never cross the Golden Crest.  I have
warned you, so remember."

Again she touched her whip to Midnight, who leaped forward up the steep
trail, pleased to be away from the place where he had received such a
fright.  Only once did the girl look back to wave a friendly hand to
Reynolds ere a sharp turn in the trail hid her from view.




CHAPTER VII

BOTTLES WILL DO

For a few minutes Reynolds stood and looked up the trail after the girl
and horse had disappeared from view.  He was strongly tempted to follow
to the heights above to see what lay beyond.  He refrained, however, as
the afternoon was fast wearing away, and he had a heavy load to carry
back to camp.  Retracing his steps to the brook, he walked up the
ravine until he came to the spot where the grizzly was lying, half
buried beneath the rocks and earth.

"Too bad, old chap," he remarked, as he looked down upon the brute.
"But, then, it served you right.  You attacked the innocent and
defenseless, little thinking that such swift vengeance was so near.
You were little different, however, from certain two-legged brutes who
tried the same game to their own sorrow.  You did me a great favor
to-day, though, and it's too bad I had to shoot you.  I would like to
take your skin and keep it as a souvenir of this day.  Guess I'll have
to come back for it as I cannot carry it now.  And, besides, I shall
need a shovel to dig you out of that heap."

It was later than usual when Reynolds reached camp.  The way was long
and the sheep he carried was heavy.  But his step was light and his
heart happy.  He had met Glen, had talked with her, looked into her
eyes, and felt the firm pressure of her hand.  Fate was kind to him, he
reasoned, and it augured well for the future.

He was tired and hungry when he reached his little tent on the bank of
the creek.  A supper of broiled lamb, sour-dough bread, stewed dried
fruit, and tea greatly refreshed him.  He then lighted his pipe, and
stretching himself out upon his blankets, meditated upon all that had
taken place during the afternoon.  It was good to lie there and rest
with deep silence all around, the vision of Glen before him, and the
remembrance of her voice and the touch of her hand.  He wondered how
and when he should see her again.  He was determined that it must be
soon, and he smiled at the idea of a terrible father keeping him away
from her.  What did he care for desperate men?  Had he not faced them
over and over again as they lay entrenched behind blazing rifles and
deadly machine-guns?  He had carried his life in his hand on numerous
occasions on behalf of King and country, and he was not afraid to do it
again for his own personal satisfaction.  Just how he was to accomplish
his object he had no definite idea.  It was enough for him as he lay
there to think of Glen's voice, the charm of her face, and the glory of
her kindling eyes.

When he had finished his smoke he arose, and hoisting the sheep once
again upon his back he carried it down to the roadhouse, where he sold
it to Shorty, who had bargained with him the evening before for his
game of the day.  It was much easier than toting it around to the
various tents and shacks, and selling it by the piece to the miners.
He made less, to be sure, but he was satisfied.  In fact, he was
becoming tired of this business, and longed for something else,
especially since he had met Glen in the hills.

Several men had arrived at Big Draw that day, and had brought a number
of letters.  One was for Reynolds, from his old friend, the editor.  It
was a fatherly letter, full of interest for his welfare, and the hope
that he would soon return and enter upon the quest to find the missing
Henry Redmond.


"I cannot get this notion out of my mind," he wrote in conclusion.  "It
is with me night and day since I talked it over with you.  I believe
you are the person best fitted for the undertaking.  Give up your
present wild-goose chase, and come home."


Reynolds smiled as he thrust the letter into his pocket, The editor
called his trip north a "wild-goose chase."  He little knew that it was
a chase of a different kind, and the bird was a fascinating girl.  "I
guess I shall have to tell Harmon that the bird I'm after is not a wild
goose, but a new species, found solely up here, and with only one known
specimen in existence.  But I must write to him, anyway, and tell him
something about my doings and the life at Big Draw."

In an adjoining room men were playing cards.  Reynolds entered and
stood watching them, especially Curly, who was deep in a game.  He was
evidently losing heavily, and he was in a bad frame of mind.  As
Reynolds stood and watched him, he began to wonder when the fellow had
first met Glen.  Was it on the trail, or had Curly ventured beyond the
Golden Crest?  It pleased him to know that the girl disliked the man,
and how she wished that the fog-bank had not lifted just when it did.
He longed to know what was in Curly's mind.  Would he attempt to meet
the girl again?  That he was capable of the basest villainy, he had not
the shadow of a doubt.  Frontier Samson had told him as much, and the
old prospector apparently knew whereof he spoke.  It was not safe for
Glen to travel alone among the hills, he mused.  She was in danger of
meeting a worse brute than the raging grizzly she had encountered that
afternoon.

As Reynolds thought of these things he kept his eyes fixed intently
upon Curly's face, not realising that he was staring so hard.  But
Curly did, and glancing up several times from his cards, he met those
steady, inscrutable eyes.  At first it annoyed him, making him nervous
and impatient.  He wondered what the quiet, reserved fellow meant by
looking at him in such a manner.  At length he became angry, and
noticing that the eyes never left his face, he leaped to his feet with
a savage oath, and moving over to where Reynolds was standing, demanded
of him an explanation.

Brought suddenly to earth, Reynolds started, and asked what was the
trouble.

"Trouble!" Curly roared.  "You'll d---- soon find out if you don't mind
your own business."

"Why, I have been doing nothing," and Reynolds looked his surprise.  "I
was merely watching the game."

"No, you weren't.  You were watching me like a cat watches a mouse, and
I want to know what you mean."

Reynolds laughed.

"I didn't realise I was watching you," he explained.  "My mind was
elsewhere.  I was thinking of more important things.  You seem to be
looking for trouble."

"I am, and you're the trouble, d---- you.  You've made me lose my game."

"H'm, you needn't accuse me.  It must be your own conscience.  I am not
looking for a quarrel, even if you are.  I shall leave at once if my
presence is so objectionable to you.  I'm rather fond of my own
company."

"Coward!"

Reynolds had partly turned as this word smote him like a knife.  He
wheeled in an instant and faced Curly.

"Did you refer to me?" he asked.  His eyes spoke danger, and the
muscles of his body were tense.  But Curly did not heed the signs; he
had thrown caution to the winds.

"I did," he replied.  "And I repeat it, 'Coward!' for that is what----"

Curly never finished the sentence, for a rigid fist caught him suddenly
under the right jaw, and sent him reeling backward upon a small table.
Recovering himself as speedily as possible, and wild with pain and
rage, he ripped forth a revolver from a hip-pocket.  A dead silence
pervaded the room, like a calm before a storm.  And during that silence
something unexpected happened.  It was not the report of the revolver,
but the angry growl of a dog, the spitting of a cat, the bleat of a
sheep, and the crow of a cock.

"Gr-r-r-r, ps-s-s-s, ba-a-a-a, cock-a-doodle-do-o-o."

So incongruous did the peculiar sounds appear, that all stared in
amazement.  Then when they beheld Frontier Samson standing near the
door, their faces broadened into knowing grins, followed by hearty
outbursts of laughter.

The prospector walked at once over to where Curly was standing, and
laid his big right hand upon his shoulder.

"What's all this about?" he asked.  "In trouble agin, eh?"

"I've been insulted by _that_?" and Curly motioned to Reynolds.

"An' so yer goin' to shoot?"

"I certainly am, so leave me alone."

"An unarmed man?"

"What in h---- do I care whether he's armed or unarmed?"

"H'm, I guess ye'd care if he had a gun in his hands."

"Let him do it, Samson."  It was Reynolds speaking.  "An unarmed man is
the only one he would try to shoot.  He took mighty good care to keep
out of range of the German guns during the war."

"You're a liar," Curly yelled, for the taunt stung him to the quick.

"Then the lie is on your own bead," was the quiet reply.  "You and
others have made the boast that you hid in the mountains and could not
be caught when men were so sorely needed at the Front.  If it's a lie,
then you lied first, so don't blame me."

Curly's only response was to raise his revolver and fire.  But Samson's
hand struck the weapon in time to divert the aim, and no harm was done.

"Thar, that's enough of sich nonsense."  The old prospector's voice was
more than usually stern.  "I'm not goin' to stand here an' see a man
shot down in cold blood by the likes of you, Curly.  The chap ye want
to kill is worth ten of you any day.  An' as fer shootin', why, ye
wouldn't have a peek in with him if he had a gun."

"Give him one, then, and see how he can shoot," was the surly reply.

"But give me that first," and Samson laid his hand upon Curly's
revolver.

"What for?"

"Never mind; I'll explain later, so jist let go.  Thar, that's better,"
he commented when Curly had reluctantly obeyed.  "Now, look here, I've
got a suggestion to make.  Let's settle this racket outside.  It's no
use practisin' on human bodies which the Lord made fer something more
important.  Whiskey bottles will do as well, an' the more ye smash of
them the better, to my way of thinkin'.  So s'pose we stick several of
'em up an' let you two crack away at 'em.  That's the best way to find
out who's the real marksman.  Anyone got a rifle handy?"

This suggestion was not at all to Curly's liking.  He preferred to have
matters all his own way, and his opponent completely at his mercy.  But
Frontier Samson, as well as all the miners present, decided otherwise,
and so Curly was forced to bow to the inevitable.

The men entered enthusiastically into this shooting-test, and in a few
minutes three bottles were stuck upon a stump about fifty yards off.  A
rifle was procured, which Samson at once handed to Curly.

"Now, shoot, ye beggar," he ordered.  "Here's the chance to show what
ye kin do."

Curly's hand trembled as he took the weapon.  The miners crowded around
and assailed him with various remarks.

"Go to it, Curly," one encouraged.  "Ye were always good at hitting the
bottle."

"But not so far away," another bantered.  "Curly likes it near, and
full, at that."

Curly looked as if he would have liked to turn the rifle upon the men
instead of the bottles.  He was angry, and an angry man is always at a
great disadvantage, especially where a steady nerve is needed.  He
accordingly fired wild, and when, the third shot had been made, the
bottles remained untouched.

During this performance Reynolds had been standing silently by,
apparently the least concerned of all.  He felt annoyed at the trouble
which had occurred, and he was anxious that Curly should be taught a
salutary lesson.  He picked up the rifle from the ground where his
opponent had flung it in his rage, and brought it to his shoulder.  He
never felt calmer in his life as he took a quick and steady aim.
Thrice he pulled the trigger, and each time a bottle crashed to the
ground, while the excited miners cheered and shouted themselves hoarse.

When he was through, Reynolds quietly handed the rifle to Frontier
Samson.  Then he turned to Curly.

"Are you satisfied now?" he asked, "or do you want some more shooting?
If so, I am ready."

With an oath, Curly turned upon his heel, and was about to walk away,
when the old prospector laid a firm hand upon his shoulder.

"Jist a minute, young man," he ordered.  "I want to give ye a word of
advice, which ye kin take or leave as ye see fit.  Ye've made a
miserable fool of yerself today, though it isn't the first time ye've
done it, not by a long chalk.  If ye want to git along in this camp,
stow that nasty temper of yours, an' mind yer own bizness.  This young
feller wasn't interferin' with you one bit.  The devil was in ye, an'
ye had to spit it out on somebody.  Ye better be more keerful in the
future, as I mightn't allus be around to check ye on yer rampage."

"But he hit me," Curly growled.

"Sure he did, an' wouldn't anyone with the least grain of spunk in him
do the same if he'd been called a coward fer nuthin'?  This young chap
is no coward, let me tell ye that.  He did more'n his bit over in
France when you was hidin' away in the hills.  Oh, I know all about it,
an' whar ye was an' what ye was doin'.  Why, this chap ye wanted to
shoot has more scars on his body an' more medals to his credit than you
have toes an' fingers.  An' yit ye called him a coward!  I guess the
men here know purty well by this time who is the coward an' who isn't.
Thar, that's all I have to say, so ye may go.  I'm sick of the sight of
ye."

Curly was angry, but so fierce and powerful did the old prospector look
that he did not dare to reply.  He slunk away, leaving the miners
greatly amused at his defeat.  But Frontier Samson was not amused, for
he knew Curly better than any of the men gathered there.




CHAPTER VIII

LOVE VERSUS GOLD

The next day Reynolds spent as usual out in the hills, though he did no
hunting.  When not stretched out upon the ground, he was wandering
aimlessly around wherever his spirit listed.  He had no more interest
in the mountain sheep, and he passed several fine flocks without firing
a shot.  His thoughts were elsewhere, upon game of far greater
importance.  He had spent a sleepless night, for Curly's action not
only annoyed but disgusted him.  He did not wish to remain near such a
cur, and the sooner he left, the better it would be for both of them.
His only desire was to be left alone, and that seemed impossible so
long as he stayed at Big Draw.  But where could he go, and what should
he do?  Had he not met Glen Weston it would be an easy task to leave
the north at once.  But since she was here, and just beyond the hills,
he could not bear the thought of going away without seeing her again.

As he lay under a big tree, there suddenly came into his mind the old
fairy tale of "The Sleeping Beauty and the Enchanted Palace."  He
smiled as he recalled it now, for was not he himself something like the
young knight who faced all manner of difficulties and won the prize?
But the knight of the fairy tale did not have to contend with a
desperate father and a tribe of Indians, as all the people connected
with the ancient story were asleep.  This was a much more difficult
undertaking, and a greater adventure by far.  It stirred his blood as
he thought of it, making him anxious to be away upon the quest.

It was about the middle of the afternoon when he at length made his way
to the ravine where he had met Glen the previous day.  There was just
the slightest chance that he might see her again, for something he had
detected in her eyes encouraged him in the belief that she looked upon
him with favor.  But when he reached the place no sign of life could he
behold.  He went to the spot where he had left the grizzly half buried
beneath the rocks and earth.  To his surprise no sign of the bear was
to be seen.  No doubt the Indians had been sent to recover the animal
for its skin and meat.  Had Glen come with them? he wondered, to show
where the animal had fallen?  Such an idea was feasible, and he chided
himself for not being there early in the day when he might have again
met her.

Going to the tree on the bank where he had first beheld the girl on
horseback, he threw himself down upon the ground and kept his eyes
fixed upon the trail across the ravine.  He still cherished the hope
that she might reappear, and this would be the best place to see her.
His earnest longings, however, were of no avail, for no sign of the
girl could he behold.  Birds flitted here and there, while a great
eagle alighted upon a rocky pinnacle and eyed him curiously and
somewhat suspiciously.

"If I only had your power of flight, my fine fellow," Reynolds mused,
"it would not take me long to go beyond the Golden Crest.  I wonder why
human beings were made the most helpless of all creatures?  We are
endowed with aspirations, yet how often they come to naught for lack of
power to achieve them.  But I shall achieve mine.  If I have not the
wings of an eagle, I have the mind of a man, as well as strength of
body.  I shall go to her, no matter what obstacles intervene."  He rose
from his reclining position and began to descend the bank.  He had gone
but half way, when, happening to glance once more across the ravine, he
was surprised to see an Indian mounted upon a horse far up the trail.
Both horse and rider were motionless until Reynolds' eyes rested upon
them, when they vanished as if by magic.  He gazed in amazement,
thinking that perhaps he had seen a vision.  But look as he might,
nothing more could he see, and, much mystified, he continued on his way
back to Big Draw.

Reynolds' mind was now fully made up.  The day of meditation spent in
the hills had proven beneficial.  He would at once undertake the
venture, and find out what lay beyond the Golden Crest.  He would be
the knight of the fairy tale, and either win or die in the attempt to
win the Princess of his heart and mind.

So much was Glen in Reynolds' thoughts that he could think of little
else.  He visioned her mounted upon her horse, facing the grizzly.
What a picture she would make!  Never before had he beheld such a
scene, and his fingers burned to sketch her as she now stood out clear
and distinct in his mind.

Producing a pencil and a sheet of his scanty supply of paper, he was
soon at work before the door of his tent.  The bottom of a biscuit box,
placed at the proper angle on the stump of a jack-pine, formed his
easel.  Perched upon another box, he was soon busily engaged upon the
outline of what was to be his masterpiece.  Forgotten was everything
else as he sat there, devoting all the energy of heart, mind, and hand
to the work before him.  The miners might delve for gold; Curly and his
companions might gamble to their hearts' content; such things were
nothing to him.  He had struck a vein of wealth, the true gold of love,
by the side of which all the treasures of earth were as dross.

And as he worked, a shadow suddenly fell across the picture.  Looking
quickly up, he was surprised to see Frontier Samson standing quietly by
his side, looking intently upon the sketch.

"You startled me," and Reynolds gave a slight laugh, feeling for the
instant a sense of embarrassment.

"Caught in the act, eh?" the prospector queried.

"It seems so, doesn't it?  I wasn't expecting company."

"Oh, I don't mean you, young man.  I was thinkin' of her," and Samson
pointed to the picture.  "Where did ye ketch her?"

"Out on the hills.  Isn't she wonderful?"

"Mebbe she is an' mebbe she isn't," was the cautious reply.

"Have you any doubt about it?" Reynolds somewhat impatiently asked.

"Wall, no, I s'pose not.  I'll take yer word fer it."

"But can't you see for yourself, man, what she is?"

"H'm, d'ye expect me to see what you do in that picter?"

"And why not?"

"Simply 'cause I'm not as young as you are.  Now that," and he pointed
to the sketch, "doesn't tell me much.  I see some drawin's thar of a
gal on horseback, but they don't show me the gal herself.  They don't
tell me anything about the sound of her voice, the look in her eyes,
nor the heavin' of her buzom.  I can't see what her mind's like, nor
her heart, fer that matter.  Them's the things ye can't draw, an'
them's the things by which I judge a gal."

"But good gracious! if you saw her only once you would know what she's
like; the most wonderful creature in the whole world.  Heaven and earth
must have combined in bestowing upon her their choicest graces."

"When did ye see her like that?" and Samson again motioned to the
sketch.

"Yesterday; out in the hills."

"On horseback?"

"Yes, and face to face with a grizzly."

"A grizzly!"

"It certainly was, and a monster, too.  My! you should have seen the
way she handled her horse when the brute was coming toward her.  Some
day I am going to sketch her as she looked when the horse was rearing
backward.  This drawing merely shows her in repose when last I saw her."

"An' what happened to the grizzly?" the old man queried.

"Oh, a bullet hit him, that was all, and he took a header into the
ravine below."

"It did!  An' whar did the bullet come from?  Jist dropped down by
accident at the right moment, I s'pose."

Reynolds merely smiled at the prospector's words, and offered no
explanation.

"Modest, eh?" and Samson chuckled.  "No more trouble to knock over a
grizzly than it was to smash three whiskey bottles without winkin'.  I
like yer coolness, young man.  Now, some fellers 'ud have blatted it
all over camp in no time.  An' that happened yesterday, so ye say?"

"Yes; toward evening."

"An' the gal was thar all alone?"

"It seems so.  I wanted to go home with her, but she would not let me."

"She wouldn't!  An' why not?"

"She said it wasn't safe for me to go beyond the Golden Crest."

"Did she give any reason?"

"None at all, and that's what makes me curious."

"About what?"

"What lies beyond the Golden Crest.  The spirit of adventure is on me,
and I intend to make the attempt to find out for myself about the
mystery surrounding that place."

"Ye do!  Didn't the gal say it wasn't safe?"

"All the greater reason, then, why I should go.  If that girl will not
come to me, I am going to her.  Death is the worst that can happen to
me, and I would rather die than live without Glen Weston."

"Ye've got it bad, haven't ye?" and Samson smiled.  "But mebbe she's
got the fever, too, since yesterday, an' has been back to the ravine to
see if you was thar."

"Perhaps she did, but I was too late.  I was there this afternoon, and
saw no one except an Indian on horseback.  The bear, too, was gone."

"Ye saw an Injun, ye say?  What was he doin'?"

"Merely sitting upon his horse at the top of the trail.  But he
vanished just as soon as I glimpsed him."

"An' the bear was gone, too, did ye say?"

"Yes; nothing left of it.  I suppose the Indians came for it.  Perhaps
Glen was with them, and so I missed another chance of seeing her."

During this conversation Frontier Samson had been standing.  But now he
sat down upon the ground, and remained for some time in deep thought.
He filled and lighted his pipe, and smoked in silence, while Reynolds
continued his work upon the sketch.

"When d'ye expect to leave camp?" Samson at length asked.

But Reynolds made no reply.  He went on steadily with his work, while
the old man watched him with twinkling eyes.

"Completely gone," he mused.  "Deaf to the world.  Can't hear nuthin'.
It's a sure sign."

"What's that?  Were you speaking?" Reynolds suddenly asked.

"Speakin'!  Sure.  Why, me tongue's been goin' like a mill-clapper,
though ye never heard a word I said."

"I was lost, I guess," and Reynolds smiled as he turned toward the
sketch.

"So I imagined.  But, then, I fergive ye, fer I was young once meself,
an' in love, too, so I know all the signs.  I only wanted to know when
ye expect to hit the trail on yer great adventure?"

"To-morrow," was the emphatic reply.  "This place won't keep me an hour
longer than I can help.  I am sick of it."

"How d'ye expect to travel?"

"On foot, of course; straight over the mountains."

"D'ye realise the dangers?"

"Dangers are nothing to me; I am used to them."

"But s'pose I should tell ye it's impossible to git behind the Golden
Crest?"

"Then, I like to do the impossible.  There are plenty to do the
ordinary things.  I want to do the extraordinary, the so-called
impossible.  Did you ever hear the song that the Panama Canal diggers
used to sing to cheer them up?"

"No; what is it?"

"I only know four lines; they go this way:

  "'Got any rivers they say are uncrossable?
  Got any mountains you can't tunnel through?
  We specialize on the wholly impossible,
  Doing the things that no man can do.'

"I like those words, and they have heartened me more than once."

"They're sartinly stirrin', an' I like the spirit of 'em," the
prospector replied.  "But it seems to me that ye've got to use common
sense as well as spirit.  Now reason tells me that ye need someone to
help ye in this undertakin' of yours, an' why shouldn't that someone be
me?"

"You!  Could you help me?" Reynolds eagerly asked.  "Will you go with
me?"

"I might on a sartin condition."

"And what is that?"

"Nuthin' much, 'cept you'll go with me."

"And why shouldn't I?"

"That's jist the pint about which I ain't sure.  Though you've got the
feet of a man, yit from what I gather yer heart an' yer head have
eagle's wings, which'll make ye impatient to foller an old feller like
me, who ain't as spry as he once was, an' whose jints are somewhat
stiff."

"Oh, you needn't worry about that," Reynolds laughingly told him.  "I
hope I have a little sense left yet, although it's quite true what you
say about my heart and my head having eagle's wings.  You lead on and
I'll follow like a dog."

"Now, look here, young man, thar's something else I want to put to ye.
'Twixt two things, one sartin an' t'other unsartin, which will ye
choose?"

"I do not understand.  Explain what you mean."

"Wall, ye see, it's this way: The findin' that gal on which ye've set
yer heart is a mighty unsartin proposition.  But thar's another which
is as sure as the sun, an' about which all the men here in camp, an'
the hull world fer that matter, would go crazy over if they knew about
it."

"What is it?'

"It's gold; that's what it is, an' plenty of it, too."

"Where?"  Reynolds' eyes were big with excitement.

"Oh, back in the hills.  I discovered it over a year ago, an' nobody
knows of it but me."

"Why didn't you report it?"

"H'm, what would be the good of doin' that?  Haven't I seen too many
gold strikes already, an' what have they amounted to?  Look at this
camp, fer instance.  The men have come here an' ruined this place.
They may git some gold, but what good will it do 'em?  They'll gamble
it, or waste it in other ways.  Oh, I know, fer I've seen it lots of
times."

"Why, then, are you willing to reveal the secret of your mine to me?"
Reynolds asked.

"Did I say I was willin'?"

"That is what I inferred from your words."

"I merely asked ye 'twixt which would ye choose: the findin' that gal,
which is an unsartin proposition, or gittin' the gold, which is as sure
as the sun.  That's all I asked."

"But if I choose the gold, then your secret will be known, and there
will be a wild stampede into the place.  You don't want that to happen,
do you?  It would be the same story of other camps, and perhaps worse."

"No, I don't want it to happen, that's a fact.  But, ye see, it's bound
to come sooner or later.  Thar are so many men pokin' thar noses into
every hole an' corner, that they are sure to find my mine before long.
Now, I want someone to my likin' to be first on the ground, an' that
someone is you.  Ye kin then make yer choice an' stake two claims as
discoverer.  Tharfore, which will ye choose, that gal proposition or
the gold?  It's up to you.  Is it hard to decide?"

"Not at all," was the reply.  "I shall take the girl.  One might run
across gold any time, but a girl like that one won't find again.  And,
besides, what good would the gold be to me without her?  I, therefore,
take the girl proposition."

Samson looked at his companion in surprise, as if he had not heard
aright.  Here was a phase of character beyond the bounds of his
experience.

"An' ye don't want the gold?" he asked.

"Certainly I want the gold, who wouldn't?  But you told me I had to
choose it or the girl, didn't you?"

"I surely did, though I never imagined ye'd throw down the gold.  Now,
all the fellers I ever met up here would have taken the gold first."

"Feeling sure of getting the girl later; is that it?"

"That's about the gist of it.  They'd tackle what's sartin first, but
you're willin' to try the unsartin."

"I am, and when can we start?"

"In the morning if it's all the same to you.  We'll need some extry
grub, which we kin git from Shorty.  We won't want much, as we'll find
plenty of meat along the way.  We'll hit out before the camp's astir,
so nobody'll know what's become of us."

"How long will it take us to cross the Golden Crest?" Reynolds asked.

"That depends upon many things.  We might do it in three or four days
by the way we're goin', or, again, it might take six months, an' mebbe
longer.  In fact, we might never git thar at all."

"I planned to do it in a couple of days," Reynolds declared.

"I s'pose ye did.  But things don't allus turn out as ye plan,
'specially if ye undertake to cross the Golden Crest.  Ye see, things
happen thar quick as lightnin' sometimes, an' if yer lucky enough to
git off alive, the patchin'-up process might take a long time.  See?"

"I see," Reynolds replied, as he took the sketch from the improvised
easel, "I have a number of patches on my body already, so a few more
won't make much difference."




CHAPTER IX

THE OUTER TRAIL

A profound silence lay over Big Draw mining camp as Frontier Samson and
Tom Reynolds slipped quietly away among the hills.  The sun had not yet
lifted itself above the horizon, but the speediness of its coming was
heralded in the eastern sky, and the tallest mountain peaks had already
caught the first shafts of its virgin glory.  The valleys were still
robed in semi-darkness, and the two wayfarers seemed like mere spectres
as they sped forward.

"My, this is great!" Reynolds exclaimed as he at length stopped to
readjust his pack.  "I believe I should live to be a hundred or over if
I could breathe air like this all the time.  It's a fine tonic."

"It sure is," Samson agreed, as he laid aside his rifle and pulled out
his pipe.  "Not much like the smell of yer city streets, whar ye
swaller hundreds of disease germs every second."

"Have you ever lived there?" Reynolds asked, curious to learn something
of the old man's history.

"Long enough to know what they're like.  I've poked me nose into a good
many cities, an' they're all the same, to my way of thinkin'.  It's a
wonder to me why so many people live in sich places, crowded, together
like sheep, when thar's all this, an' millions of places like it, whar
ye kin breathe the air as the Lord made it, an' not fouled by the work
of human bein's."

"You are very fond of this wild life, I see," Reynolds replied.  "Have
you lived here many years?"

The prospector threw aside his burnt match, gave his pack an extra
hitch, picked up his rifle and moved forward.

"Guess we'd better git on," he said.  "Thar's a little brook we want to
reach in time fer dinner.  Ye don't find much water in these valleys."

Reynolds moved along by his companion's side, wondering why he did not
answer his question.  It was not until they were eating their dinner by
the side of the brook did Samson vouchsafe any information.

"Ye asked me if I've been long in this country," he began.  "My reply
may seem strange to you, but it's true.  Judgin' by years, I've been
here a long time, but, accordin' to life, only a little while.  I uster
reckon things by years, but I don't do that any longer."

"No?"  Reynolds looked quizzically at his companion.

"I don't count time by years, young man, an' the sooner ye larn to do
the same the better it'll be fer ye.  In the cities ye find clocks an'
watches everywhere, an' they all remind people that time is passin'.
Ye kin hardly walk along a street hut ye'll see funeral processions,
an' the doctors are busy with the sick.  Big hospitals are crowded with
patients, an' accidents happen every minute of the day.  These all tell
that life is brief an' unsartin.  The feelin' gits in the blood an' on
the nerves that death is right near, an' as people think, so they are.
Age an' health are accordin' to the mind, an' don't ye ever fergit
that."

Samson paused and looked around.

"See them big mountains," and he pointed away to the left.  "A man kin
never feel old with them on every side.  They don't remind ye of the
passin' of time an' of dyin'.  They're jist the same as they were
thousands of years ago.  An' so it's purty much like that with other
things up here.  I never feel old when I look around me on the
wonderful sights; I feel young.  An' why shouldn't I?  Thar's so much
to do, an' so many things to see an' larn that I haven't time to think
of dyin'.  Life after all, as I said, ain't to be judged by years, but
by love of livin'."

Samson seemed to be on his pet theme, and he continued his talk as he
and Reynolds again resumed their journey.  Several times the latter
endeavored to find out something about the old man's past history, but
all in vain.  The prospector gave him not the slightest information
concerning himself, but discoursed volubly about the difference between
the ways of the city and the wilderness.

"Money ain't everything," he declared, "even though some seem to think
it is.  It has its uses, I acknowledge, but it was never meant to
starve the soul, though that is jist what it too often does.  I know of
men who sacrificed everything to the pilin' up of money, even love,
without which life ain't worth a straw."

"Have you been able to find love here in the north?" Reynolds asked.

"Thar are different kinds of love, young man," was the somewhat slow
and thoughtful reply.  "The brand you mean, if I understand ye aright,
I've never experienced in this country, an' in fact, I never expect to
find it agin on this side of the grave.  It's the pure love of a true
man fer a good woman, I mean.  I believe you have it, an' yer to be
congratulated.  It's the most wonderful thing in life.  Even the love
of children, though it is great, kin never equal it.  It's in a class
all by itself."

"But suppose the love isn't mutual, what then?" Reynolds asked.

"That'd be a pity, an' no mistake.  Are ye referrin' to yer own case?"

"I certainly am.  I am positive that the only woman in the world I want
cares nothing for me.  She does not even know my name, while I--oh,
well, you know how I feel toward her."

"Jist keep up courage an' plod along, that's my advice.  If she's meant
fer you, ye'll win her all right.  I'm a great believer in the idea
that our own'll come to us some day, an' often in ways we least expect.
But, hello! what's that?"

The trail on which they were now walking wound along the side of a deep
valley, through which flowed a small stream.  Samson was looking across
toward the opposite bank, and as Reynolds turned his eyes in that
direction he saw an Indian on horseback as motionless as the trees
around him.  He was facing the two travellers, and apparently he had
been watching them for some time.

"Where do you suppose he has come from, and what does he want?"
Reynolds asked.

His companion's only reply was to bring his rifle to his shoulder and
fire two shots in rapid succession across the valley toward the
horseman, neither of which took effect.  The Indian quickly unslung his
rifle, fired one shot in return, and immediately vanished into the
forest.

"Is that the best you can do?" Reynolds asked.  "You should have let me
have a crack at him."

"Me aim's unsartin to-day," was the reply.  "I don't allus miss like
that."

"But why did you shoot, anyway?  The Indian was doing us no harm."

"He was skulkin' around, though, an' I jist gave him a hint to move
along."

"So you didn't intend to shoot him?"

"Oh, no.  It was merely a hint, as I told ye."

"A queer hint, I should say," and Reynolds laughed.  "Manners of the
wilderness, I suppose?"

"Sure.  We don't stand on ceremony up here.  We're a bluff bunch, an'
if we don't like a feller's company we tell him so without beatin'
around the bush."

"And did the Indian understand your meaning?"

"Y'bet he did.  He took my shots as sayin', 'Good day.  How are the
missus an' the kids?  Mebbe they need ye.'  His shot in reply jist
said, 'Thank ye; mebbe they do.'  That was all."

Reynolds laughed at this quaint explanation, although he felt certain
that Samson was not telling him the truth.  He said nothing about it,
however, and the prospector did not refer to it again.  But Reynolds
had the feeling that his companion and the Indian understood each
other, and that the shots they had fired were signals, the meaning of
which was known only to themselves.  Who was this Frontier Samson? he
mused.  Was he in some manner in league with the Indians?  Why had he
taken such an interest in him, a complete stranger, and a chechahco at
that?  Why should he wish to reveal to him the secret of his gold
discovery?  He could not for a moment think that Samson had any evil
purpose in mind, but as he thought it all over during the remainder of
the afternoon, he felt that there was something very peculiar and
mysterious about it all.

This feeling was intensified that first night on the trail.  They
camped by a little stream, where the trees stood thick, and larger than
on the uplands.  They had shot a couple of grouse on their way, and
these Samson prepared for supper.

"I'll jist cook both of 'em," he remarked, "an' what we don't eat
to-night will be fine warmed up to-morrow."

"I should like to get a moose," Reynolds declared.  "I haven't shot one
since I came north."

"Don't do it, young man, unless ye kin git nuthin' else," Samson
advised.  "A moose is a purty big animal, an' we could tote only a
little piece of its carcass.  The rest we'd have to leave to spile.
I've allus made a practice of shootin' something that I kin clean up in
a few meals.  Some critters, who call 'emselves men, shoot everything
in sight, an' leave it to spile.  That is wasteful slaughter, an' not
true sport."

Reynolds was glad to roll himself up in his blanket that night, for he
was tired after his day's tramp, with a heavy pack on his back.  Samson
did likewise, and soon silence reigned in the deep forest, broken only
by the ripple of the brook a short distance away.  It was a calm night,
mild, and with not a breath of wind astir.

Some time during the night Reynolds awoke with a start.  He sat up and
looked around.  It was light enough for him to see that his companion
was gone, and he believed that it was his footsteps that had aroused
him.  After waiting for some time and nothing happened, he once again
stretched himself out upon the ground.  But he could not sleep.  What
was the meaning of Samson's departure? he wondered.  Had it anything to
do with the Indian they had seen that day across the ravine?  The more
he thought of it, the more mystified he became.  How long he thus lay
there with every sense alert, he did not know, though it seemed a long
time before the prospector at last returned.  Reynolds pretended that
he was asleep, but his suspicions were now firmly confirmed when the
old man bent over him for a few seconds as if to make sure that he was
not awake.

Reynolds did not refer to the incident the next day, and Samson made no
mention of it.  The latter was in excellent spirits, and talked freely
as they moved on their way.  That night they halted, and made ready
their camp by the side of a small lake.  It was a peaceful and
beautiful spot.  Not a ripple ruffled the surface of the water, and the
trees along the shore were mirrored in the clear depths.  Reynolds was
delighted, and he expressed his admiration to his companion.

"Isn't this great!" he exclaimed.  "I have never seen anything to equal
it!  It is a matchless gem, with a perfect setting."

"Yes, it sartinly is wonderful," the prospector drawled.  "An' I'm glad
ye like it.  Guess thar should be ducks over yonder," and he motioned
to the upper end of the lake.  "A good fat feller'd be nice fer dinner
to-morrow."

Picking up his rifle, he disappeared among the trees, and in another
minute his light tread was unheard.  Reynolds stood for some time
viewing the scene before him.  He longed for his paints and brushes
that he might catch the impressions ere they faded.  Unfortunately he
had left them behind, so he had to satisfy himself with feasting his
soul instead.

At length he turned and walked back to their camping ground.  He had
just reached the place when a magnificent moose trotted majestically by
but a short distance away.  Forgotten was Samson's admonition about the
shooting of big game, so seizing his rifle, he slipped quickly and
quietly after the big animal.  The latter had already passed out of
sight, but expecting to catch a glimpse of it at any instant, Reynolds
hastened forward.  This led him down into a valley, and there he saw
the moose in a small open clearing to the left.  Before he was near
enough to shoot, the animal once more vanished among the trees.  The
fever of the chase was now upon him, and unheeding his bearings, he
pressed rapidly on, expecting every minute to come in sight of the
lordly creature.  But he was doomed to disappointment, and most
reluctantly he was compelled to relinquish the pursuit.

Reynolds had no definite idea how far he had travelled, nor the
direction he had taken.  So intent had he been upon following the
moose, that he had lost all trace of his bearings, and he knew not the
way back to the camp.  This was a most disquieting situation, and he
chided himself for his stupidity.  Night was also upon him, and this
added to his perplexity.

"What a mess I have made of it!" he growled.  "In this labyrinth of
valleys, hills, trees, and wild meadows, how in the name of common
sense am I to find that speck of camping ground?  It must lie over
there," and he looked away to his right.  "The sun was before me when I
started, and by keeping due east I should come somewhere near the
place."

For over an hour he plowed his way through the forest, up hill and
down, each moment expecting to see the lake for which he was searching.
His efforts, however, were all in vain, so wearied almost to the point
of exhaustion, and with clothes torn, hands and face bleeding, he was
forced to give up for the night.

Sinking upon the ground, he tried to calm the agitated state of his
mind.  From the first he had realised his serious predicament, and how
difficult it would be to extricate himself from that vast wilderness.

"I can't go any farther to-night," he declared, "so I might as well
make the best of a bad affair.  I have my rifle, and that's some
comfort.  I needn't starve, anyway, even though I am lost."

He felt for his cartridge belt, and immediately he gave a great start
of dismay.  It was not there!  Then he remembered that he had taken it
off when pitching camp that night by the shore of the lake.  With
trembling hands he next examined the magazine of his rifle, and found
that but three cartridges were left, as he had fired two shots in the
hope of attracting Frontier Samson's attention.  This was a serious
situation, and he realised that upon those three remaining cartridges
his life depended.




CHAPTER X

ADRIFT IN THE WILDERNESS

Nowhere, perhaps, except adrift in mid-ocean, is the sense of
loneliness more appalling than to be lost in a labyrinthine forest of
the mighty north.  Even upon the ocean there is always the chance of
being picked up by a passing vessel.  But lost in the wilderness!
hidden from view, what hope can the stoutest heart entertain of rescue?
Here a man is but a thing of naught, an insect creeping upon the
ground, a mere speck, the veritable plaything of chance.

Reynolds, however, was well hardened to desperate situations.  Often in
France he had been alone in "No Man's Land," with death close at hand.
He had never flinched then, and he was determined that he would not do
so now.

"I told Harmon that I like adventure and desperate undertakings," he
mused.  "I have certainly enough here to satisfy me for a while.  But
it can't be helped, and so I must make the best of it.  Rest is what I
need at present, and I am not going to worry about to-morrow.  'One
thing at a time' has been my motto, and I guess it's a good one."

He awoke early the next morning, though the sun was up ahead of him.
He sprang to his feet and peered around.  But nothing could he see,
except trees on every side.

"I must get out of this," he muttered, "and strike for the high hills.
Perhaps there I may be able to get my proper bearings.  I must find a
breakfast somewhere, but with my scanty supply of ammunition, it is
necessary to be careful."

Picking up his rifle, he started forth, and for several hours moved
steadily onward.  Through a break in the forest he had caught sight of
a high hill, and toward this he laboriously made his way.  He had to
descend first into a deep valley, where a large wild meadow offered an
inviting feeding-ground for moose.  But not a sign of life could he
see, and greatly disappointed he was forced to begin the hard climb up
the opposite side of the hill.

About the middle of the afternoon he succeeded in shooting a rabbit,
which he at once skinned and broiled over a small fire.  He was weak
from hunger and hard, anxious travelling, so this food gave him much
refreshment.  He ate sparingly, nevertheless, knowing that he might not
be able to procure anything more for supper.  With only two cartridges
left, his outlook was far from encouraging.

When the summit of the hill was at length reached, he climbed a large
fir tree from which he was enabled to obtain an excellent view of the
surrounding country.  Far off rose great snow-capped mountain peaks,
over which fleecy clouds were lazily drifting.  A vast sea of forest
stretched on every side, broken here and there by placid, shimmering
lakes.  But which was the one near the camp where Frontier Samson was
no doubt anxiously awaiting the wanderer's return?  That was the
question which agitated Reynolds' mind.  No sign of human life could he
behold, and he wondered in which direction Big Draw mining camp lay.
So completely had he lost his bearings that he had no idea which was
the right course to pursue.  Anyway, it was necessary to keep on the
move, for to remain where he was meant certain death.  If he must die,
he would die fighting, game to the very last.  Surely beyond some of
those outstanding hills he could find a river, which would bear him out
of that wilderness maze.  A high crest to the left looked promising,
and toward this he at once started.

He slept that night in a valley by a little brook which gurgled down to
a lake beyond.  The remains of the rabbit served him for supper, and
where was he to obtain his next meal?  He had startled several grouse
during the day, and once he detected the plunging of a moose.  But
nothing came within the range of his rifle except a few noisy
squirrels, but upon these he did not dare to waste his two remaining
cartridges.  In his extremity he would have welcomed the sight of a
bear, and even a grizzly at that.  He could then afford to exhaust his
ammunition, as the flesh of a bear would last him for many days.  But
no bear had he met, although signs of them were at times abundant,
especially in the valleys.

The next morning in a mood of desperation, he took a long shot at a
flying grouse and missed it.  One cartridge now remained, and it was
absolutely necessary to reserve that for something large.  Down the
valley lay a big wide meadow, and here he believed he might find a
moose feeding.  It was worth trying, at any rate.  Walking warily along
the edge of the forest, he was at length rewarded by seeing a fine
animal some distance off on the opposite side of the meadow.  Reynolds
instantly stopped, and his hands trembled through the excitement of his
discovery.  If he could get a little closer he felt sure that the moose
would be his.  But just as he took a few steps forward, the animal
lifted its great head and sniffed the air.  There was not a second to
lose, so bringing the rifle to his shoulder, he took a quick aim and
fired.  With a startled snort, the moose reared, staggered, and then
with tremendous leaps bounded across the twenty or thirty yards of
intervening meadow and vanished in the forest.  Reynolds could hear it
crashing its way among the trees as he hurried out into the open.  The
sounds grew fainter and fainter, and finally ceased.  The animal had
made good its escape, although evidently wounded.

Reynolds' previous discouragement was nothing to what he experienced
now.  He moved mechanically toward the spot where the moose had been
grazing.  Why he did so he could not tell.  He reached the border of
the forest, and flung himself down upon the grass.  With his last
cartridge gone, what chance had he of life?  He had been in many a dire
strait in the past, but nothing to equal this.  He was face to face
with death, more surely and in a far more terrible form than he had
ever encountered in far off France.

"This is certainly 'No Man's Land,'" he muttered.  "I do not believe a
human being ever trod this region before and it is not likely that
anyone will come here during the next one hundred years.  And to think
that I missed that shot when my life depended upon it!  It must be my
nerves."

A feeling of annoyance swept upon him, and picking up his rifle, he
hurled it among the trees.

"Lie there," he ordered.  "You are of no use to me now, and I have no
strength to tote you along."

Then he laughed, and the hollow sound of his voice startled him.  He
sprang to his feet and looked around.  Why had he laughed? he asked
himself.  Was he going out of his mind?  He glanced at his hands and
shuddered, so bruised and bleeding were they.  His clothes, too, were
in tatters, while his boots were so worn that portions of his feet were
visible.

For a few minutes he stood rigidly still, as if in a dream.  The
intense loneliness of the place was appalling.  It was unnerving him,
and he was losing control of himself.  Suddenly he started and ran as
if for life, back over the track he had recently traversed.  He was no
longer the Tom Reynolds who had started forth from Big Draw, but a
denizen of the wilds.  The desire for food possessed him.  It made him
mad, a demon, ready to fall upon any creature that crossed his path.
He was crafty as well, and reaching the shelter of the forest, he
glided cautiously along the edge of the meadow, up toward the little
brook where he had slept the night before.  No tiger creeping through
the jungle moved more stealthily than did he.  Nothing escaped his
notice, and he eagerly watched for rabbit or squirrel that he might
pounce upon it.

For some time he thus advanced, but nothing could he see.  At length he
came to an opening in the trees, which exposed the brook plainly to
view.  His eyes swept the stream, and as they did so they presently
rested upon a black object crouched upon a fallen tree projecting out
over the brook.  He recognized it at once as a black bear, watching for
fish.  It was lying flat on the log, with one big paw close to the
water waiting for its breakfast.

Reynolds' first impulse was to rush forward and engage the brute in a
deadly conflict.  But a natural caution restrained him, and he
accordingly waited to see what would happen.  Neither did he have to
wait long, for in a twinkling the big paw struck, the water splashed,
and a shiny form hurtled through the air, and fell several yards away.
And after it sprang the bear, but his body had scarcely left the log
ere Reynolds was bounding toward him with such yells and whoops that
the forest resounded on all sides.  Startled and surprised beyond
measure, the bear paused and looked back.  Seeing, but not
understanding the strange creature rushing toward him with wildly
waving arms, and emitting such blood-curdling yells, it uttered a
hoarse growl of fear and rage and lumbered off for the shelter of the
forest as fast as its legs would carry it.

Reynolds paid no more attention to the bear than if it had been a gnat,
but sprang greedily upon the fish, which was wriggling and beating
itself around upon the ground.  It was a young king-salmon, and
although not large, Reynolds thought it the finest fish he had ever
beheld.  It did not take him long to despatch his prize, and in a few
minutes a portion of it was sizzling over a small fire he had lighted.
Never had any food tasted so good, he imagined, and the strength thus
gained brought back his normal state of mind.  He felt more like
himself, and ready for another effort to free himself from his
wilderness prison.  He even smiled as he thought of the bear's fright
and its ignominious retreat.

"Lost your breakfast, old boy, didn't you?" he called out.  "You
weren't expecting company, were you?  But I am grateful to you, and
wish you better luck next time."

Taking with him the remainder of the fish, Reynolds once more continued
his journey.  The high ridge was a long way off, and before it could be
reached it would be necessary to cross several smaller hills and a
number of valleys.  But with strength renewed, he sped onward.

All through the day the heat had been almost over-powering.  It poured
its hot rays full upon him, and not a breath of wind stirred the trees.
He was about half way up the high hill when the weather suddenly
changed.  The sky darkened, and the wind began to howl through the
forest.  Great black clouds massed in vast battalions overhead, and in
less than half an hour the storm burst.

Reynolds had paused on a rocky ledge as the tempest swept upon him.
Never before had he experienced such a storm.  It seemed as if the very
windows of heaven had suddenly opened to deluge the earth.  He looked
hurriedly around for shelter, and seeing an overhanging portion of
rock, he at once made his way thither, and crouched low for protection.
The rain, however, swirled in after him, forcing him to move farther
back.  That he was able to do this surprised him, and feeling with his
hands, he discovered that there was a big open space to the rear, and
that he was at the entrance of a cave, how large he did not know.
Fortunately he was provided with a good supply of matches, so striking
one, he examined his new abode.  The brief feeble light showed that the
cave was about a foot higher than his head, and much larger than he had
supposed.  He had no inclination to explore it just then, for some dry
sticks lying at his feet arrested his attention.  He was hungry after
his hard tramp, so a piece of salmon would be most acceptable.

It did not take him long to light a small fire as near the mouth of the
cave as the rain would permit, and, prepare his meal.  The fire felt
good, too, for the air was damp and chilly.

"I might as well spend the night here," he mused, "for even if the
storm does let up, I would only get soaked from the drenched trees.
And, besides, I cannot see anything from the top of the hill until the
clouds roll away and the air clears."

He ate the nicely browned piece of fish, and when he had finished he
leaned comfortably back, filled and lighted his pipe.  This was the
first time he had thought of smoking since leaving Frontier Samson.  He
wondered where the old prospector was, and whether he was hunting
frantically for his lost companion.  His mind turned naturally to Glen.
He was farther from her now than ever, and should he see her again?
The thought of her had stimulated him during his recent terrible
experiences.  Over and over again she seemed to be standing by his
side, urging him to go on, and renewing his fainting spirits.  He
pictured her now as he had last seen her at the top of that steep
trail, mounted upon her horse.  He recalled for the thousandth time her
clear musical voice, the bright flash of her eyes, and the deep flush
which had mantled her cheeks at the mention of Curly's name.

"I must find her," he emphatically declared, as he stirred up the
dwindling fire, and added a couple of sticks.  "I expected to be with
her before this, but here I am, lodged like a bear in this dismal hole."

He glanced around the cave, and as he did so, he gave a sudden start.
Something in one side of the wall where the fire-light fell attracted
his attention.  It made his heart beat fast, and brought him to his
feet in an instant.  His hand reached up and touched it.  Then he
quickly struck a match, and examined it more carefully.  Yes, he was
right, and he had made no mistake.  It was gold!




CHAPTER XI

INTO THE GREAT UNKNOWN

For a few seconds Reynolds stared upon his new discovery.  Then he
examined the walls elsewhere, and no matter where he looked, he found
nuggets of gold protruding from the earth.  His excitement now became
intense, and seizing a burning stick he began to explore the cave.
Everywhere it was the same.  The earth beneath his feet was even filled
with nuggets, and, they gleamed upon him from overhead.  He felt that
he must be dreaming, or else his terrible experiences of late had
turned his brain.  Could it be possible that he had accidentally
stumbled upon a vein of the precious metal, rich beyond the wildest
bounds of imagination!  He put his hand to his face, and even pinched
himself to make sure that he was awake.

When the brand had flickered out, he walked back to the fire and sat
down.  He tried to calm himself that he might think over his wonderful
discovery.  The rain still pelted down outside, and the wind roared
among the trees.  But Reynolds paid no attention to them now.  He saw
nothing but gold, heaps of it, piled high before him, and himself the
richest man in the whole world.  What would not the miners of Big Draw
give to know of this discovery!  How they would flock to the place,
followed by thousands of others.  What a change would ensue in a short
time.  No longer would it be the desolate wilderness, but alive with
frantic human beings.

But suppose he should never live to tell the tale?  He was lost, far
from any habitation, and with only enough food for a most meagre
breakfast.  No, he must not die.  It was necessary for him to live, to
make his great discovery known; and to reap the rich harvest himself.
And Glen!  Again he thought of her.  He would be able to go to her a
rich man instead of almost a beggar.  He smiled as he recalled what he
had said to Frontier Samson.  The prospector had given him his choice
between gold and the girl, and he had chosen the latter.  His love had
not changed in the least degree, but why should he not have the gold as
well as the girl?

Reynolds sat for a long time that night absorbed in deep thought.  He
slept upon the ground, and his dreams were a jumble of wild animals,
gold, and a beautiful girl.  He awoke early and noted with satisfaction
that the storm had ceased, and the sky was clear.  Having eaten the
last of the salmon, he left the cave and viewed his surroundings in
order to locate his bearings should he ever return to the place.  He
believed that he was about half way up the highest hill in the
immediate vicinity, and that he could not fail to miss seeing it from a
distance.  He noticed that the hill formed the apex of a triangular
formation, while two hills, one to the right and the other to left,
served as base corners.  He was sure that he could remember such
guiding marks, and would be able to return to the cave without any
difficulty.

It was with a feeling of reluctance that he at length left the cave and
again assayed the climb up the side of the hill, which became steeper
and more precipitous the farther he advanced.  At times he was forced
to pull himself up by means of roots and small trees, so his progress
was accordingly slow.  The sun was hot, and often he grew faint from
heat and fatigue.  He watched for any sign of life, of rabbit, bird, or
squirrel.  But the place seemed deserted, and even the plant life was
scant and scrubby.  A fierce thirst came upon him, for no water had
passed his lips since the previous day.

Thus hour after hour he toiled upward.  He did not dare to return to
the brook below, for that would mean certain death.  It had to be ever
on until the summit was reached, and what then?  His courage almost
failed as he thought of what that barren peak might have in store for
him.  He had been disappointed so often, surely Fate would not abandon
him now after he had made such a fierce fight for life.

When but a hundred yards from his goal, he paused for a minute's
respite.  He turned his bloodshot eyes to the sky.  A great eagle was
soaring majestically athwart the blue.  It seemed to mock him by its
easy flight.  It angered him as he followed its every movement.  Why
should a mere bird have such freedom of motion, while man was so
helpless?  To the eagle, distance was nothing; it laughed the highest
mountain peak to scorn, and its food was wherever its fancy led.  He
suddenly thought of the gold he had discovered.  In the world of
civilization what a power it would mean.  What could it not do toward
providing ease and reputation?  And of what use was that treasure to
him now?  It was of no more value than the stones beneath his feet, and
he would gladly have given it all for one good meal and a draught of
refreshing water.

The eagle was still soaring overhead, free and buoyant.  It was nearer
now, wheeling closer and closer to Reynolds as he clung like a snail to
the side of the hill.  And he was made in the image of God!  The
thought stung him.  Why should such things be?  Instantly there flashed
into his mind a picture he had often seen.  It was the side of a steep
cliff, and there a shepherd was rescuing a sheep from its perilous
position.  The man was clinging with His left hand to a crevice in the
rock, while with His right He was reaching far over to lift up the poor
animal, which was looking up pathetically into the shepherd's loving
face.  He knew the meaning of that picture, and it came to him now with
a startling intensity.  Why did he think of it? he asked himself.
Although his life was clean, yet Reynolds was not what might be called
a religious man.  He was not in the habit of praying, and he seldom
went to church.  But something about that picture appealed to him as he
crouched on that burning hillside.  Was there One who would help him
out of his present difficulty?  He believed there was, for he had been
so taught as a little child.  He remembered the Master's words, "Ask,
and ye shall have."  "Here, then, is a chance to test the truthfulness
of that saying," a voice whispered.

"I shall not do it," Reynolds emphatically declared.  "I have not
prayed for so long, that I'm not going to act the hypocrite now, and
cry for help when I'm in a tight corner.  I daresay He would assist me,
but I am ashamed to ask Him.  If I should only think of a friend when I
am in trouble I should consider myself a mean cur, and unfit to have
the friendship of anyone.  And that's about how I stand with Him, so I
do not consider myself worthy of His help."

Although Reynolds reasoned in this manner, yet that picture of The Good
Shepherd inspired him.  He could not get it out of his mind as he lay
there watching the eagle soaring nearer and nearer.

"I wonder what that bird is after?" he mused.  "It is coming this way,
and it seems to be getting ready to alight.  Perhaps it has a nest
somewhere on this hill."

This thought aroused him.  An eagle's nest!  It was generally built on
some high rocky place, and why should there not be one here?  And if
so, there might be eggs, and eggs would mean food for a starving man.

Eagerly and anxiously he watched the bird now, hoping and longing that
it would alight close to where he was crouching.  Neither was he
disappointed, for in a few minutes the eagle drove straight for the
hill, about fifty yards above, and landed upon a rocky ledge.  Seizing
a stick lying near, with cat-like agility, Reynolds sprang forward, and
hurried to the spot where the bird had alighted.  From what he had
heard and read about eagles he surmised that a struggle lay ahead of
him, so he clutched the stick firmly as he advanced.

It took him but a few minutes to reach the place, and as he paused and
looked keenly around for the nest, an infuriated mass of great wings
and feathers hurled itself upon him.  Taken by surprise, Reynolds
staggered back, and lifted his stick to ward off the attack.  How he
saved himself from being torn to pieces by the talons and beak of that
angry bird he never could tell.  It was a mystery to him that he was
able to defend himself at all.  But do it he did, and used his stick in
such a skilful manner that he kept the creature from tearing at his
face.  Fortunately he had a good footing, which enabled him to retreat
at each desperate onslaught, and to meet the bird with a furious blow
as it wheeled and circled close above his head.  But he realised that
he could not endure the strain much longer, for he was weak through
lack of food and hard climbing.  The energy of the eagle, on the other
hand, seemed just as keen as ever, and it might continue the fight for
hours.  Reynolds grew desperate as he thought of this, and he was
determined that he should not leave his body there as food for his
opponent.

He watched as the bird again circled and once more swept to the attack.
But he was ready, and as it swooped close enough he threw his entire
remaining strength into one great swinging blow.  The stick struck the
eagle fair on the head with a resounding crash, and so great was the
force of the impact that the cudgel snapped like a pipestem, and the
broken end hurtled over the ledge.  The eagle's fight was done.  It
swerved from its course, and frantically tried to recover itself.  But
all in vain.  Far out over the hillside it swung, and then a helpless
and inert mass, it dropped down, and crashed into the tops of the firs
and jack-pines, which lifted their heads like pointed spears to receive
the victim.

Reynolds watched until the bird had disappeared.  Then he breathed a
deep sigh of relief, and examined his wounds.  His hands were bleeding,
and such clothes as he had were literally torn into shreds.  He was so
weak that he could hardly stand, and he sank down upon the ground.

"How long will this keep up?" he panted.  "What else lies before me?  I
am a poor specimen of a human being now, and unfitted for another
encounter of any kind.  This was my own fault, though.  That poor devil
I just sent to its doom was merely acting in self-defence.  But the
survival of the fittest is the law of the wilderness just as in the
ways of so-called civilization.  That bird had what I needed; and that
settles it."

This turned his mind upon the nest, which he suspected was somewhere
near.  In another minute he had found it, a mass of sticks, in the
midst of which was a hollow lined with wild grass, and lying there were
three white eggs.  Eagerly he seized one, and held it in his hand.  Was
it fresh? he wondered, or was it ready to be hatched?

Drawing forth his pocket-knife, he perforated each end of the egg, and
smelled the contents.  It was fresh, having been recently laid.  In
another instant it was at his parched lips, and never did he remember
having tasted anything half as refreshing.  Then he looked longingly at
the other two.

"No, I must not eat them now," he told himself.  "I shall need them for
supper and breakfast.  The Lord only knows when I shall get anything
more."

The mention of the Lord brought back to him the picture of The Good
Shepherd rescuing the lost sheep.  "Strange, very strange," he mused,
as he picked up the eggs and continued his climb.  "Can it be possible
that the Lord had anything to do with that eagle coming here just when
I was about all in, and ready to drop from hunger and thirst?  I am not
ashamed, anyway, to confess my gratitude, even though I disliked the
idea of praying."

A few minutes later he stood on the top of the hill, a bleak, desolate
spot, rocky, and devoid of the least sign of vegetation.  But this
mattered nothing to him now, for his eyes rested almost immediately
upon a silver gleam away to the left.  It was water, and a river at
that!  An exclamation of joy leaped from his lips, as from that lonely
peak he viewed the river of his salvation.  Where it led, he did not
know, but surely along that stream he would find human beings, able and
willing to succor him.

Forgotten now was his weariness, and a new hope possessed his soul.  He
could not expect to reach the river that afternoon, for several valleys
and small hills intervened.  But he could go part of the way and on the
morrow complete the journey.  Carefully guarding his two precious eggs,
he hurried down the opposite side of the hill as fast as it was
possible, and night found him by the side of a small wood-enshrouded
lake.  Here he stopped, drank of the cool refreshing water, and built a
small fire.  Finding a smooth stone, he washed it clean, and heating it
thoroughly, he was enabled to fry one of the eggs upon the surface.  In
the morning the other was treated in a similar manner, and thus
strengthened, but his hunger not appeased, he sped onward.

This last lap of his journey to the river was a trying one.  Reynolds
made it more difficult by his feverish impatience, and when about the
middle of the afternoon he heard the ripple of water, and caught the
first gleam through the trees of its sparkling surface, he was
completely exhausted, and had only sufficient strength to drag his
weary form to the river's bank.  A refreshing drink of the ice-cold
water and a rest of a few minutes revived him.  The stream was swift,
far swifter than he had anticipated.  But this encouraged him, for if
once launched upon its surface it would bear him speedily out of that
desolate wilderness.

A craft of some kind was necessary, so searching around, he found
several good-sized trees, stripped and bare, which had been brought
down stream by the spring floods, and left stranded upon the bank.
With considerable difficulty he managed to fashion these into a rude
raft, binding all together with strong, pliable willow withes.  As a
boy he had often made rafts, and the knowledge acquired then served him
in good stead now.

Finding a stout pole, he stepped upon the raft, and to his delight
found that it would easily bear his weight.  Pushing it from the shore,
it was soon caught by the strong current and borne rapidly down stream.
The steering was an easy matter, so, sitting upon the raft, he gave
himself up to the luxury of this new mode of travel.  It was such a
great relief from his fearful wandering through the woods and climbing
the hills, that but for his pangs of hunger he would have been quite
happy.

All through, the night the raft swung on its way, the plaything of the
current which kept it clear of bars and rocks.  Reynolds did not dare
to sleep, for he could not tell what lay ahead.  It might be a
dangerous rapid, or at any minute he might come to some camp along the
shore, and it would be necessary to be wide awake and alert.

But nothing happened, and morning found him still floating onward into
the great unknown.  He was ravenously hungry, and once he ran the raft
ashore and gathered a number of willow twigs.  These he gnawed as he
once more continued his voyage.  This, however, was poor food for a
starving man, and he was well aware that unless he could obtain
something more substantial he must miserably perish.  Game was
plentiful along the river, and several times he saw moose and bears,
while early that morning he ran close to a flock of wild ducks.  But
their presence only mocked him now, weaponless as he was.

This day was a most trying one, for about the middle of the forenoon it
began to rain, and Reynolds was wet to the skin as he sat huddled upon
the raft.  Anxiously he peered forward, hoping that around every bend
something more cheering than the monotonous trees would meet his eyes.
But hour after hour it was just the same, and the rain continued
without any cessation.  Would the river never end? he asked himself
over and over again.  Whither was it bearing him, anyway?  At times the
sinuous water appeared like a demon, carrying him on to destruction.
Its gurgle and ripple sounded in his ears like mocking laughter, and
the great brooding forest in its intense silence seemed in league with
the stream.  Of what avail were all his mighty efforts?  He had escaped
from the tangle of the forest, only to be lured to ruin by the river.

The afternoon waned, and night drew near, and still the raft swept
onward.  Reynolds felt that he could endure the strain but little
longer.  He was chilled to the bone, and cramped from his huddled
position.  He must land, and get some circulation in his body,
providing he had any strength left.

He was about to run the raft ashore, when to his great delight it
suddenly shot forth from its forest prison into the open expanse of a
broad and silent lake.  Reynolds staggered painfully to his feet and
looked around.  He could only see a short distance, as a heavy mist lay
over the water.  His eyes scanned the shore, but no sign of human
habitation could he behold.  There was nothing except the same scene of
desolation which had been his companion for weary days.

The raft was motionless now, some distance out upon the lake.  Slowly
Reynolds forced it to the shore, and secured it in a little cove.

"I might as well stay here for the night," he muttered.  "It may be
clear to-morrow which will enable me to see farther.  Oh, for something
to eat!"

With much difficulty he started a fire, for the wood was wet, and then
warmed himself before the cheerful blaze.  It was not raining so hard
now, for which he was thankful.  He tried to dry his rags of clothes by
hanging them on sticks near the fire.  His boots were off his feet,
with the uppers alone clinging to his ankles.  Removing these, he
examined them.  Then an idea flashed into his mind.  He had heard of
men eating their boots in their extremity, and why should not he!  It
was worth the try, at any rate.

It took him but a second to whip out his knife and cut a piece from the
top of one of the boots.  This he washed clean in the lake, and tasted
it.  Only one on the extreme verge of starvation can in any manner
comprehend what even a portion of a boot means.  There is some
nourishment there, as Reynolds soon found.  Almost ravenously he chewed
that piece of leather, extracting from it whatever life-giving
substance it contained.  When it had been converted to mere pulp, he
helped himself to another piece.  He was in a most desperate situation,
but if he could sustain his strength for another night and day he
believed that his life would be spared.  Surely along that lake he
would find human beings, whether Indians or whites he did not care, who
would give him food.

He awoke early the next morning, and having partaken his breakfast of
another piece of boot, he pushed off his raft.  There was only one way
for him to go, and that was with the breeze which was drawing down the
lake.  The mist was now lifting, and although he strained his eyes, he
could see no sign of life.  He had to pole the raft now, and in order
to do so he was forced to keep close to the shore where the water was
shallow.

Thus all through the morning and far on into the afternoon he urged the
raft forward with all the strength at his command.  There were so many
curves to the shore that following these lengthened the voyage.  From
point to point he moved, each time to be disappointed as he looked
ahead and saw nothing but trees and water.

The sun was hot, and the perspiration poured down his face.  But with
the energy of despair he drove his pole again and again into the water.
As the afternoon waned, and night drew near, the limit of his endurance
was reached, and he knew that he could do no more.  He had struggled
for life, but to no purpose.  Rest was all that he cared for now.  His
head began to swim, and he sank exhausted upon the raft.  And there he
lay, face downward, while the raft drifted at its own sweet will.
Presently a breeze sprang up and cooled the air.  But it did not affect
Reynolds in the least.  He had fought to the last grain of strength,
and when that left him he was beyond all sense of time, place, and
feeling.




CHAPTER XII

THE GIRL OF GLEN WEST

When Glen Weston reached the top of the hill that afternoon of her
encounter with the grizzly, she reined in Midnight and swung him
sharply around.  She was confident that she could not be seen from the
valley below, as a large projecting rock hid her from view.  She was in
no hurry to leave the place, and several times she was tempted to
dismount, peer around the rock to see if her rescuer were still at the
bottom of the trail.  She refrained from doing so, however, lest he
might see her, and thus be induced to follow her.

Glen was not a girl to be easily affected, but she had to acknowledge
to herself that the gallant stranger interested her in an unusual
manner.  He was not like the men she was in the habit of meeting.  He
was different and so courteous.  And he was good looking, too, she
mused.  He had also been at the Front!  That appealed to her, and
aroused her curiosity.  What had he done over there? she wondered.  Had
he performed special deeds of daring, and carried off any medals?

For some time she remained there facing the west.  The sun was riding
over the distant mountain peaks, and the whole landscape was bathed in
resplendent glory.  Midnight was standing close to the rocky ledge,
with ears pointed forward and his large eyes turned to the left.  His
body was still quivering, and every nerve was keenly alert.
Occasionally his right fore-hoof struck the rock, indicating his
impatience to be away.  The slightest sound startled him, for he could
not easily forget his encounter with the bear.

"Steady, laddie," Glen soothed, when he became more restless than
usual.  "I know you are anxious to be off, but I like this place.  I
wonder where we would be now but for that wonderful shot.  Most likely
we would be lying down there in the ravine instead of the grizzly."

For about fifteen minutes longer she remained in this position,
silently looking out toward the great mountains beyond.  Had Reynolds
but seen her then, how the artist soul within him would have rejoiced.
With a remarkable grace and ease she sat there, as one well accustomed
to the saddle.  Her left hand held the reins, and her right the
riding-whip.  Her soft felt hat, caught up at one side, partly shaded
her face.  A deep flush mantled her cheeks, due not to the reflection
of the sun alone, but to buoyant health, and the excitement through
which she had just passed.

Almost wistfully she at length wheeled her horse and headed him away
from the summit.  Midnight needed no urging, and the light of
satisfaction gleamed in his eyes as he sped swiftly and nimbly along
the narrow trail.  No guiding hand directed him, and the reins lay
loose upon his glossy neck, for his mistress' mind was elsewhere.  At
times he was compelled to slow down to a walk where the rocks were
thick, or the trail steep and dangerous.  But whenever possible, such
as on the wild meadows, he laid back his ears and sped like the wind.
This always aroused Glen and brought her back to earth.  She enjoyed
such races, and when they were over, she would pat Midnight on the neck
and utter affectionate words of praise.  Horse and rider understood
each other, which feeling had been developed through years of
companionship on many a hard trail.

For over an hour they thus moved steadily onward, and at length there
loomed before them the high frowning ridge of the Golden Crest.  At
first it seemed to form an impassable barrier to their advance.  But as
they continued, an opening suddenly appeared, flanked on either side by
huge projecting rocks.  It was Nature's great doorway in one of the
mighty partitions of the house not made with hands.  Through this
Midnight speedily loped and ere long swept out upon a wild meadow which
extended to the left farther than the eye could see, and over a mile in
width.  Horses were feeding here, and at once Midnight lifted up his
voice in a friendly neigh of salutation, which was immediately answered
by several horses in the distance.  In fact, he was on the point of
slowing down and swerving from the trail, but a light flick of the whip
reminded him that his mistress had other business on hand which had to
be attended to first, so again throwing back his ears, he dashed onward.

The wild meadow crossed, they reached a wooded region where the trail
ascended and wound up a steep hill.  Midnight took this with a bound,
and in a few minutes he was at the top, panting heavily from his
vigorous exercise.  Here Glen reined him in, and sat silently looking
straight before her.  And truly it was a magnificent scene which was
thus so suddenly presented to her view.  Below stretched a dense
forest, lying sombre beneath the shades of evening.  Away in the
distance rose the mighty mountains, sentinel-like and austere, while
between, flashing like a jewel in its dark stern setting, was a large
body of water.  Not a ripple ruffled its surface, and nothing could
Glen discern there, although her eyes scanned it most intently.

A word to Midnight, and down the incline they moved, and in a short
time emerged from the forest, when a large open clearing burst into
view.  To a stranger the sight would have been startling, for a short
distance away was a neat village, close to the water's edge.  But to
Glen it was not at all out of the ordinary.  She had been accustomed to
it from childhood, and to her it was home.

The village consisted of well built log houses, at the doors of which
children were playing, and dogs lying around.  The former smiled as the
girl rode by.  She did not stop as was her wont, to talk to them, but
at once made her way to a building larger than the others.  This was a
store, in front of which a number of Indians were gathered.

As Glen rode up and stopped, a tall, powerfully built native came forth
and laid his hand upon the horse's bridle.  It was the same Indian
Reynolds had seen that night at the dance in Whitehorse.  He was
evidently accustomed to waiting upon Glen, and needed no instructions.
But on this occasion the girl did not dismount.  She merely leaned over
and whispered a few words to her attendant, who simply nodded, and let
his hand drop from the bridle.  Then as Glen continued on her way, he
walked by her side through the street, up along the water-front.

In a few minutes they passed from the village and entered a grove of
trees which extended down to the shore of the lake.  In the midst of
this was a clearing, and situated here was a log building of generous
proportions, well made, and altogether different from the rest in the
settlement.  It was a two-story building, facing the water, with large
windows, and a spacious verandah sweeping around the front and both
sides.  Wherever it was possible, paint had been liberally applied, and
the white on the sashes, the green on the corner-boards, and the red on
the roof gave it a striking appearance.  It might well have been the
home of some millionaire, who had thus sought seclusion in the
wilderness, adding to his domicile a few touches of the world of
civilization.

The grounds were well kept, showing that much attention had been
bestowed upon them.  Flowers bloomed in profusion, and off to the left
a vegetable garden showed what the north could produce.  A gravelly
walk led to the water, and here at a small wharf floated a motor-boat,
graceful in appearance, and capable of carrying passengers and freight.
Several Indian men were standing on the wharf, while others, including
women and children, were paddling in canoes but a short distance away.
It was a scene of peace and seclusion, a regular fairy-land nestling
there in the wilds.  Even the storms of winter could not affect the
place, for besides the sheltering trees which surrounded it on all
sides, the frowning ridge of the Golden Crest formed a mighty barrier
to the rear.

But Glen noticed none of these things, for something else occupied her
mind this evening.  She had remained silent since leaving the store,
but now that the house was in sight, she halted Midnight at the edge of
the woods and looked at her Indian companion.

"Is daddy home yet?" she asked, speaking in the rhythmical native
language with which she was so familiar.

"Not home," was the brief reply.

"He said that he might come to-day, didn't he?"

The Indian, merely nodded.

"He has been gone for nearly a week now," Glen continued, "and I wonder
what can be keeping him.  Do you think he will come to-night?"

"Sconda doesn't know.  Big white chief alone knows."

Glen laughed and stroked Midnight's neck with an impatient hand.

"I guess you are right, Sconda.  Daddy alone knows what he is going to
do, for he never tells me, at any rate.  But as he is not here I must
take matters into my own hands.  You know Deep Gulch beyond the Golden
Crest?" and she motioned to the left.

Again the Indian nodded.

"Well, then, there is a dead bear in the Gulch, Sconda, and I want you
to take men and bring it in, see?"

A new light now shone in the native's eyes, and he looked enquiringly
into the girl's face.

"Bear?" he asked.  "In Deep Gulch?"

"Yes, and a grizzly at that; a monster.  Oh, it was terrible!" and Glen
shivered as the recollection of the brute's fierce charge swept upon
her.

"Bear dead, eh?" Sconda queried.

"Yes, dead, and lying in the ravine, half covered with earth and rocks.
Go down Crooked Trail to the bottom, then up the gulch, and you will
find it."

"Who shoot grizzly?" the Indian asked.

"A white man.  And, oh, Sconda, you should have seen what a shot he
made!  It was wonderful!  I am sure you never did anything like it."

"Greater than Sconda made at Saku, when he shot grizzly, and saved
Injun, eh?"

"Greater?  Listen, Sconda.  That white man shot the grizzly from the
other side of Deep Gulch.  He was way up on the hill, and he hit the
bear in the heart."

The Indian's eyes showed his astonishment as he studied the girl's face
as if to make sure that she was telling the truth.

"It is true, Sconda.  I was there and saw him do it."

"What was bear doing?"

"Coming at me for all it was worth, and Midnight was almost frantic
with fright.  If it hadn't been for that white man we would be down
there now where that grizzly is lying."

"And you want Sconda to fetch bear to camp, eh?"

"I do.  Take as many men as you need and go in the morning.  Tell the
women to be ready to prepare the meat.  And, Sconda, I want you to look
after the dressing of the skin.  Get Klota to do it.  Tell her it is
for me, and she will understand.  That is all, I guess."

Glen dismounted, and handed the reins to the Indian.

"Midnight is hungry, Sconda.  Look after him yourself, and see that he
gets a good bite of grass.  And, Sconda," she added, as if an
afterthought, "you will be sure to go with the men in the morning?"

"Ah, ah, Sconda will go."

"That's good.  And I want you to do something for me.  Keep a sharp
watch to see if that white man comes again to Deep Gulch.  You will,
won't you?"

"Sconda will watch."

"But don't let him think you are watching, remember.  You stay behind
when the others have brought the bear home.  But don't let the white
man see you."

Into Sconda's eyes flashed an expression of understanding.  He knew now
what the girl meant.  What would he not do for her? the white girl he
had known since she was but a child, and whose word to him was law, not
of force but of affection.

"Now, don't forget, Sconda," Glen warned.  "Stay there, if necessary,
until night, and watch him carefully from the top of Crooked Trail.
And don't tell anybody, not even Klota.  Her eyes and ears are sharp,
and she might suspect something.  This is the greatest secret I have
ever had.  You have never failed me yet, Sconda, and I know that I can
trust you now."




CHAPTER XIII

WHEN THE STORM BURST

Glen West Lodge, the name of this fine building on the shore of that
inland lake, was a comfortable and cozy abode.  The rooms were not
large, but their furnishings and decorations showed the artistic taste
of the owner.  The pictures adorning the walls had evidently been
chosen with careful discrimination, most of them representing nature
scenes, with a few well known paintings of the world of civilization.
Each room contained a fire-place, and over the mantel of the
livingroom, which opened off the hallway, was Watt's symbolical figure
of "Hope."  Glen had often seen her father standing before this,
studying it most intently.  Once he had told her its meaning.  "You see
that woman sitting on the top of the world," he had said.  "The strings
of her harp are all broken but one, and upon that she is making the
best music she can.  It teaches us, Glen, never to despair, but with
the one string of limited power to do our best."

In one corner of this room was a piano, and the piece of modern music
above the key-board showed that someone had been recently playing.  A
lamp of neat design hung from the wainscoted ceiling, while another
with a soft shade stood upon a centre-table.  The chairs in the room
were comfortable, the largest being placed near the big southern
window, close to which was a case well filled with books.  The floor
was covered with a rich carpet, of a quiet pattern, while before the
fire-place was stretched a great bearskin rug.  It was a room to
delight the heart, especially on a night when a storm was raging over
the land.

It was through this that Glen passed after entering the house.  She
went at once into the dining-room, adjoining, where she found the table
all set for supper, and a white-haired woman standing before the
side-board, arranging knives and forks in a drawer.  She turned as Glen
entered, and a bright smile of welcome illumined her face.

"You are late, dear," she reminded.  "Supper has been ready for some
time."

"I am sorry, Nannie," the girl apologized.  "But I went farther to-day
than I intended.  There is no word from daddy, I suppose?"

"None at all, dearie.  But, hurry and change your clothes, as your
father may arrive at any minute.  He will be angry if he knows that you
have been far beyond the Golden Crest, for he has warned you to be
careful.  It is not safe for a girl to be riding alone since the miners
have come into this region."

Glen smiled gaily at the woman's fears, and hastened away to her own
room.  In about a quarter of an hour she returned, but in that brief
space of time a marvellous transformation had taken place.  In a soft
white dress, open at the throat, her beauty was enhanced ten-fold.  Her
luxuriant wavy hair had been hurriedly brushed back, and her cheeks
bore the deep flush of health and youth.  The woman at the head of the
table looked at her with undisguised admiration as she passed her a
piece of nicely browned fried salmon which an Indian servant girl had
brought in from the kitchen.

"It is too bad that your father isn't here to see you, Glen," she
remarked.  "I never saw you look prettier.  If we were outside, I might
suspect that the color in your cheeks is not due to health and exercise
alone."

"I am afraid you are flattering me, Nannie," Glen laughingly replied.
"You will make me vain, if you are not careful."

"I am not in the habit of flattering without good reason, as you well
know, dear.  But I have been thinking lately what a great pity it is
that you should be wasting your young life in a place like this."

"Losing my sweetness on the desert air; is that it, Nannie?  But what
about you?"

"Oh, I do not signify," and again the sad expression came into the
woman's eyes.  "I might as well be here as anywhere else.  But with you
it is different.  You need companions of your own age, and a more
agreeable life than this place can provide."

"I certainly do," was the emphatic assent.  "I never realised it until
my return from the Seminary.  What is the use of all my education if I
am to spend the rest of my days here, with not a girl friend, and not
a----"

Glen floundered and paused, while her cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

"I understand, dear, so do not try to explain.  It is only natural that
you should wish to be admired.  I was the same when I was your age.
But you cannot expect to find admirers up here, that is, the right
kind, and especially the one above all others."

Glen looked keenly into her companion's eyes, as if to divine her
meaning.  But she saw nothing there which might lead her to suspect
that the secret of her heart was known.

"Do you think that daddy will ever consent to leave this place?" she
asked.  "I have not spoken to him about it, for I was quite satisfied
with this life until recently."

"I have mentioned it to him," was the reply.  "Ever since you were a
child I have been urging him to leave the north, for your sake, if for
nothing else.  He always said that he expected to do so some day, but
here we are the same as ever, and I see no signs of his going."

"I wonder what in the world daddy ever came here for, anyway?"

"Why, for trading purposes, of course.  He has done wonderfully well,
and understands the Indians better than any white man in this country.
You know they will do anything for him, because he is so fair and just
in all his dealings."

"Yes, I know that, Nannie.  But daddy never goes outside, and he will
not allow white men to come here.  You know as well as I do that he
turns the Indians upon every white stranger who comes across the Golden
Crest or by water.  Daddy never mentioned it to me, but both Sconda and
Klota have told me how the miners fear this place, and think that daddy
is a terrible monster.  When I asked them what became of the white men
who ventured here, they wouldn't tell me, but looked at each other in a
queer way.  There is something mysterious about it all, and it has
puzzled me ever since I was able to understand anything."

"There, dearie, never mind worrying your brain about it now," her
companion soothed.  "You are too young to have wrinkles in your smooth
skin.  Play that nice piece you were singing before you left to-day.  I
never heard it before, and it did me so much good.  The piano has been
idle all winter, so it must make up for lost time now."

Glen told Nannie nothing about her experiences that afternoon.  She was
afraid that this woman, gifted with more than ordinary insight, might
read her heart.  It made her feel somewhat guilty, nevertheless, for
Nannie was the only mother she had ever known, and she lay awake a long
time that night thinking it all over, and wondering whether she should
tell her secret to the one woman in the world in whom she should
confide.  She had studied herself more carefully than usual in her
large mirror before retiring, and what she beheld there was far from
displeasing.  She knew that she was beautiful, and her heart told her
that her brave rescuer had looked upon her with admiration.  Should she
ever see him again? she asked herself, or had he already forgotten her?

Glen awoke early the next morning, and after breakfast she went down to
the store.  Here she learned that Sconda and a dozen men had gone to
Deep Gulch after the grizzly.  Formerly, women would have done most of
the heavy work, but the ruler of Glen West had changed all that.  The
men did not take kindly to this at first, but Jim Weston had been firm.

"If you do not like this order of things, you can go elsewhere," he
told them.  "Women are not going to do men's work here.  You bring the
game into camp, and then let your wives attend to it."

Thus the custom of the men bringing in the bear or moose became
established, and no one left, for the objectors knew that they were far
better off at Glen West than they had ever been in their lives, and
that it was to their advantage to obey their Big White Chief, as they
called Weston.

Glen waited impatiently for the men's return, and the hours dragged
slowly by until their arrival about the middle of the afternoon.  They
had skinned the bear, and cutting up the carcass, they had strapped the
pieces upon their horses.  They rode gaily into camp, and most of the
inhabitants of the place were gathered around the store to acclaim
their arrival.  All had heard of the wonderful shot across Deep Gulch,
and they were naturally curious to see the monster which had dared to
face the Big Chief's daughter.  There was the certainty, too, of fresh
meat, which added much to the interest.

Sconda, however was not with the returned men, and Glen was greatly
disappointed.  Her rescuer, then, had not come back to the gulch, so he
evidently had no more thought for her.  She had imagined that he would
be anxious to obtain the grizzly's fine skin as a souvenir of his
meeting with her.  At first she was tempted to ride forth toward
Crooked Trail and await Sconda's return, but changing her mind, she
launched her light canoe, and was soon skimming out over the water of
the big lake.  She generally took an Indian girl, or Sconda with her.
But now she wished to be alone, that she might think as she drifted or
paddled.

For over an hour she remained on the water, and when she returned,
Sconda was waiting for her on the shore.  Her face brightened as she
saw him, and she at once questioned him about her rescuer.

"Did you see him?" she asked.

"Ah, ah.  Sconda see white man."

"And did he see you?"

"Ah, ah."

"Oh!  Did he stay long at Deep Gulch?"

A shake of the head was the native's only response.

"Did he seem surprised when he found that the grizzly was gone?" Glen
asked.  "Did he look up Crooked Trail as if expecting to see someone
there?"

"White man act queer," the Indian explained.  "He stay on big hill
watching trail.  He saw Sconda once."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing," and the Indian's eyes twinkled.  "Sconda leave quick."

"And you didn't see him again?"

"Sconda come to Glen West.  White man go to Big Draw, maybe."

Although Glen was not altogether satisfied at what Sconda told her, yet
it was some comfort to know that her rescuer had returned to Deep
Gulch, and stayed there for a while watching the trail as if expecting
to see someone.  And was that someone herself? she wondered.  She had
the feeling that it was, and the thought pleased her.

Glen now found the life at Glen West more irksome than ever.  She
missed her companions of the Seminary and the excitement of the city.
She did not even have her father, for several days had now passed since
his expected return.  She had no idea what was keeping him, and she
naturally became very anxious.  Several times she discussed his delay
with Nannie.

"Did you ever know daddy to stay away as long as this?" she asked one
evening as they sat at supper.

"I have known him to be away much longer," was the reply.  "Once he was
gone for a whole month.  He is prospecting for gold, you know, and goes
far off at times."

"But he has never discovered anything, has he?"

"Nothing of great value as yet, although he is always expecting to do
so some day.  You need not worry about him, dearie, for he is well able
to take care of himself, and I understand that an Indian always keeps
in touch with him.  He has a comfortable cabin out in the hills where
he sleeps at night."

"Well, I wish to goodness he would come home," and Glen gave a deep
sigh.  "He might think of me, and how much I need him.  If he doesn't
come soon, I shall pack up and go outside again.  I believe a trip to
Whitehorse would do me good, for I am tired of staying here with
nothing to do."

"Your father would not like it," her companion reminded.  "He would be
very angry if he came home and found that you had left Glen West.  Why
not take a spin on the lake this evening?  You once were very fond of
the boat."

"I suppose I might as well go," and again Glen sighed as she rose from
the table and looked out of the window.  "Sconda is on the wharf now,
and that will save my going after him.  Won't you come, too, Nannie?  A
spin will do you good."

"Not this evening," was the reply.  "Your father may come at any
minute, and it would not do for both of us to be away from the house."

Sconda's eyes brightened as Glen came down to the wharf and asked him
to take her out upon the water.  _The Frontiersman_, the name of the
motor-boat, was the pride of Sconda's heart.  When he had been
appointed captain of the craft, his highest ambition was reached.
This, together with the fact that he was the special guardian of the
Big Chief's daughter, gave him a high standing in the camp.  No one
knew the waters of the north better than did he, and Jim Weston's mind
was always easy when Glen was with him.

In a few minutes _The Frontiersman_ was cutting through the water out
into the open.  Sconda was at the wheel, with Glen by his side, while
Taku, an Indian with special mechanical gifts, looked after the engine.

"Which way?" Sconda at length asked, after they had run out of the
sheltered creek into the main body of water.

"Up-stream," Glen replied.  "Daddy came down the Tasan once on a raft,
and he had a hard time getting home.  He may be coming that way now, so
we may be able to pick him up."

Sconda at once gave the wheel a sharp turn to the left, and the boat
swinging obediently to its master's will, rushed rapidly forward.  A
stiff breeze was now blowing dead ahead, and this Glen thoroughly
enjoyed.  It suited her nature, especially this evening, and she longed
for a tempest to sweep upon them.  Adventure and excitement she dearly
enjoyed, and she had often bewailed the fact that she was a woman and
not a man.

"Women are supposed to be demure quiet creatures," she had more than
once declared.  "They are not supposed to run any risks, but must stay
safely in the house.  That may satisfy some, but it does not suit me."

Her father and Nannie had always smiled at these outbursts of
impatience, thinking that as she grew older her mind would change, and
she would see things in a different light.  But Glen did not change,
and the longing for adventure was as strong in her heart now as ever.
The sweep of the wind this evening not only tossed her hair but
thrilled her very being, and for the first time since her return home
she felt how good it was to live in such a place.

For about half an hour they sped onward, with the wind steadily
increasing.

"Big blow soon," Sconda casually remarked, as he glanced at the heavy
clouds massing over the mountains.  Then he gave a start, and peered
keenly forward.  His eyes had caught sight of something unusual.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing to the left.

Glen's eyes followed his outstretched arm, and presently she was
enabled to detect a dark object upon the water.

"It's only a stick, isn't it, Sconda?"

"No; it's a raft," was the reply.  "There's something on it."

"Oh; maybe it's daddy!" Glen exclaimed, now thoroughly aroused.  "Make
the boat go faster.  He will be swamped by these waves!"

The boat, however, was running at full speed, and in short time they
were able to view the object more clearly.  It was certainly a raft,
and the form upon it looked like a human being.  Glen almost stopped
breathing as they drew nearer.  Could it be her father? she asked
herself.  Who else would be out there on the lake?

As the boat slowed down and ran close to the raft, Sconda called aloud
to the figure huddled upon the logs.  But there was no reply.  The wind
was tossing the rags which once were clothes, and the waves were
speedily breaking the rude craft asunder.  There was no time to lose,
so in another minute Sconda had the boat close alongside, and with the
aid of Taku the helpless man was lifted from his perilous position.

When Glen saw that the rescued man was not her father, she breathed
more freely.  But the first glimpse of his face, bearded though it was,
reminded her of someone she had seen before.  Then the light of
recognition leaped into her eyes, and with a cry of surprise she
dropped upon her knees by the side of the prostrate man as he lay upon
the deck.

Almost instantly the impending storm burst with terrible fury over that
inland body of water.  The raft went to pieces like matchwood, and
Sconda had all that he could do to manage the boat.  With the
assistance of Taku, the unconscious man was carried inside, and as Glen
watched by his side, unable to do anything for his relief, the tempest
raged without.  It was one of those terrific storms which at times
sweep down so suddenly from deep mountain draws, and lash the lake in
wildest fury.  _The Frontiersman_ reeled and plunged as she struggled
through the hurricane, and the waves dashed continuously over the deck,
threatening to smash the glass in the cabin where Glen was keeping
watch.  That large lake, so peaceful at morn, was now a raging monster.
Many an unwary voyager had been caught in such a storm, and in bygone
days the natives always used their stoutest charms in their efforts to
propitiate the demon of the mountains.

Sconda's hands firmly grasped the wheel, and his alert eyes studied
every wave as he guided the boat on her plunging course.  He realised
how much was at stake, for was not his master's daughter on board, and
he responsible for her safety?  Could he have run straight before the
gale, it would not have been so difficult.  But the creek was over
there to the right, hence it was necessary to run in a diagonal manner
which caused the boat to ship a great deal of water.  But keep this
steadfast course he did, and after a desperate struggle, _The
Frontiersman_ poked her nose into the opening of the creek, and was
soon gliding calmly over the smooth water within.




CHAPTER XIV

ANOTHER PRISONER

It was morning when Reynolds opened his eyes and looked around.  He
believed that he had been dreaming, and a horrible dream it was.  In a
few minutes his senses returned, and he vividly recalled the terrible
experiences through which he had recently passed.  But where was he?
What had happened to him?  Why was he not yet upon the raft, drifting
with the wind and tide?  He glanced about the room and saw that it was
a cozy place, with the sunlight streaming in through an open window on
the right.  He attempted to rise, but fell back wearily upon the bed.
Then he called, and the sound of his own voice startled him, so
strangely hollow and unreal did it seem.

A light footstep near the door caused him to look in that direction.
An Indian woman was coming toward him, a big motherly-looking person,
with a smile upon her face.

"Where am I?" Reynolds asked.  "And how did I get here?"

The woman made no reply, but still smiling with apparent satisfaction,
she turned and left the room.  She was back again in a few minutes,
this time carrying in her hand a bowl of steaming broth.

"Eat," she ordered, offering him a spoon.  "No talk

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