in anticipation, and as he slowly advanced to the table, his foot struck an object that felt soft and yielding to the touch, yet when he sought to brush it aside, it was heavy. He glanced down, and the next instant stooped swiftly and picked up Brent's sack of dust, which the girl had carried inside her shirt. For an instant, greed supplanted the lust in his eyes, and he laughed. Long and loud, he laughed, while the girl, pumping the air into her lungs, gained strength with every second. "So here's where he left his dust, is it? It's too good to be true! I pay five hundred fer the girl instead of a thousan', an' all the dust, that Claw'll be up scratchin' the gravel around Bloody Falls fer next summer. I guess that's poor—five hundred clean cash profit, an' the girl besides!"
The sight of Brent's gold in the man's foul clutch was too much for Snowdrift, and the next instant a billet of stovewood crashed against the wall within an inch of his head. With a low growl, he dropped the sack to the floor and started around the table. In vain the girl cast wildly about for some weapon, as, keeping the table between them, she milled round and round the room. In vain she tried each time she passed it, to wrench open the door. But always the man was too quick for her, and when finally, he pushed the table against it, she once more found herself cornered this time without a weapon, and half dead from fatigue. Slowly, deliberately, the man advanced upon her. When he reached out
and touched her bare arm with a thick fingered, hairy hand, she shrieked aloud, and redoubled the fury of her attack, clawing and striking at his face. But, her onslaught was futile. He easily warded off her tiring efforts. Closer and closer he pressed, his eyes aglitter with the fever of lust, his thick lips twisted into a gloating grin, until his arms closed slowly about her waist and his body pressed hers backward onto the bunk.
Joe Pete wanted to camp, but Brent would have none of it. The storm thickened. The wind increased in fury, buffeting them about, and causing the dogs to whine and cringe in the harness until it became necessary to fasten a leash to the leader to prevent their bolting. Hopelessly lost though they were, Brent insisted upon pushing on. "The land lies this way," he kept saying, "and we'll strike it somewhere along the coast." Then he would appeal to the Indian who would venture no opinion whatever, frankly admitting he was lost, and always counseling the making of a camp. Finally, when darkness came they did camp, merely digging into the snow; and tossing blanket and robes and a little food into the pit, crawled in and drew the tarpaulin over them.
Brent slept little that first night. Over and over again he tried to reason out the course, and between times he lay hugging tightly his bottle of hooch. "I wouldn't lose you for a million," he muttered, as
each tortured nerve of his body cried out for stimulant, and the little brain devils added their urge, and with sophistry and cunning excuse sought to undermine his resolve. "Just one drink." "You need it." "Taper off gradually." "It's medicine." But to the insidious suggestions of the brain devils he turned a deaf ear, and with clenched teeth, gripped his bottle. "I'll never want you—never need you any more than I do this night," he whispered into the dark. "Right now I'd give half my life for one big swig—but my life isn't mine to give now. It's hers—hers, do you hear! It's her fight that I'm fighting, now—and, by God, she's going to win!"
In the morning, despite the protest of Joe Pete, Brent pushed on. The storm had increased in fury, and it was with difficulty they kept their feet. Toward noon, both knew that they had gained land of some kind, for the terrain became rolling, and in places even hilly.
"We ain' goin' right fer de mountaine," shouted the Indian, with his lips close to Brent's ear. "Dey an' no leetle hill dere till we com' to de ridge."
"I don't care," yelled Brent, "We're heading south, and that's the main thing. We can hit for the river when the storm stops."
The third day was a repetition of the second, except that the hills became higher and more numerous, but entirely unlike the ridge formation of the Copper Mountains. That night the storm wore itself out,