“Don’t worry about me, Miller. Don’t concern yourself. There’s food enough here in the cabin to last till spring, if something else doesn’t turn up. I’ll make out all right.”
Again Miller shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, and without another word went down the drifted slope to where the sled waited. A moment later the jingling bells of the departing team drifted back through the still, frosty air to the young man.
For two days Steel worked. The frozen ground was indeed like solid concrete. Even the pick which he had found in the shed adjoining the rear of the cabin failed to make much impression. That six-foot-by-three hole seemed to include the universe. His back by the end of the second day seemed to be on fire, and the muscles of his arms and shoulders throbbed from the ceaseless jarring of steel on unyielding ground. And still he was only down a foot and a half. Scarcely that.
He leaned on the pick at the end of the second day, and surveyed the pitiable results of his labor. And he was a little ashamed of himself for thinking now that maybe he had been a fool, as Miller said. What did it matter, he asked himself, whether a man were buried or not? Out here in the wilderness what difference did it make? It all amounted to the same thing. Death was a stern, inexorable thing, and graves meant nothing.
But even more than this, he was appalled by the thought that now, without dogs, he must remain here throughout the long, lonely winter, at least ninety miles from the nearest point of civilization. That is, unless some traveler happened along who would be willing to take him out. But there was no counting on that. The trails were bad, there wouldn’t be much traveling over them. And he couldn’t help wondering about Miller, half wishing he had gone on with the man. But there. The thing was done now. No use thinking of it.
Again he fell to work. And suddenly he pitched forward on his face. The pick, instead of coming to the usual shocking halt on the frozen ground, had sunk deep and had thrown him off his balance.
Amazed, he extracted it. For a moment he stood looking wonderingly down at the round black hole it had made. Then he fell to work with eager excitement. And in another moment, from a box that was half-filled with small leather bags, he had taken a note and was reading.
Dear Stranger:
I have no relatives and no friends. This ten thousand in gold dust is yours. Anyone who is white enough to do what you have done is worthy of it. Many thanks, Stranger. And good luck.