D’Arcy gave a weak smile.
“I’m finished with gold-digging, Pat. It’s a rotten shame to have to let go just when luck has changed ... but that’s life all over.... I’m cold—cold.”
Lonagon, who recognized Death when he saw it coming, pulled some blankets over D’Arcy and turned moodily away. His was not a sentimental nature. Forty years in the North had killed sentiment, but he liked D’Arcy—and it hurt. He went out to get a sight of their unknown ally.
He found him and his hungry, grizzled team coming down the ravine with Shanks. It was Jim—but scarcely the Jim of old. For a month he had traveled up from Dawson and among the merciless peaks, eating but half rations and fighting storm and snow with all the power of his indomitable will. He looked like a great gaunt spectre, with hollow cheeks and eyes that shone in unearthly fashion. Shanks could not make head or tail of him. His proffered hand had been neglected and his few questions went 221 unanswered. He was pleased when Lonagon turned up, for he had a deadly fear of madmen.
“What cheer, stranger!” cried Lonagon. “You turned up in the nick of time.”
Jim stopped the sled and regarded him fixedly.
“Are you—Lonagon?” he asked in a husky voice.
“Sure!”
“Then where’s D’Arcy? I want D’Arcy. D’ye git that? It’s D’Arcy I’m after.”
Lonagon looked at Shanks. Shanks tapped his forehead significantly to indicate that in his opinion the stranger had left the major portion of his senses out on the trail, and wasn’t safe company.