"Waseche Bill attacked the hard-packed snow with his axe."
"It's an igloo, son—an igloo buried in the snow. An' the'h's a man in the'h."
"A man!" cried the astonished boy.
"Yes, kid—it's Carlson. He's dead."
Tired as they were after a hard day on the trail, the two partners were unwilling to sleep without first making a thorough examination of the buried igloo. More firewood was cut, and by the light of the leaping flames Waseche Bill attacked the hard-packed snow with his axe, while Connie busied himself in removing the cakes and loose snow from the excavation. At the end of an hour a squared passageway was completed and the two entered the igloo.
"He had a plenty grub, anyways," remarked Waseche, as he cast an appraising eye over the various bags of provisions piled upon the snow floor. "He didn't stahve, an' it wasn't the red death (smallpox)—I looked pa'tic'lah, fo' I went out of heah."
Connie glanced at the body which lay partially covered by a pile of robes. The man's features were calm and composed—one could have fancied him asleep, had it not been for the marble whiteness of the skin. One by one, they examined all the dead man's effects; the little Yukon stove, half filled with ashes, the bags of provisions, his "war-bag"—all were carefully scrutinized, but not a map—not even a pencil mark rewarded their search.