“If they did,” Shorty objected.
“They certainly did. There are no tracks besides their own, and each is powder-burned.” Smoke dragged the corpse to one side and with the toe of his moccasin nosed a revolver out of the snow into which it had been pressed by the body. “That's what did the work. I told you we'd find something.”
“From the looks of it we ain't started yet. Now what'd two fat geezers want to kill theirselves for?”
“When we find that out we'll have found the rest of your trouble,” Smoke answered. “Come on. It's blowing dark.”
Quite dark it was when Smoke's snow-shoe tripped him over a body. He fell across a sled, on which lay another body. And when he had dug the snow out of his neck and struck a match, he and Shorty glimpsed a third body, wrapped in blankets, lying beside a partially dug grave. Also, ere the match flickered out, they caught sight of half a dozen additional graves.
“B-r-r-r,” Shorty shivered. “Suicide Camp. All fed up. I reckon they're all dead.”
“No—peep at that.” Smoke was looking farther along at a dim glimmer of light. “And there's another light—and a third one there. Come on. Let's hike.”
No more corpses delayed them, and in several minutes, over a hard-packed trail, they were in the camp.
“It's a city,” Shorty whispered. “There must be twenty cabins. An' not a dog. Ain't that funny!”
“And that explains it,” Smoke whispered back excitedly. “It's the Laura Sibley outfit. Don't you remember? Came up the Yukon last fall on the Port Townsend Number Six. Went right by Dawson without stopping. The steamer must have landed them at the mouth of the creek.”