Then, somehow, Jim Maxwell, when he found himself isolated there in a cabin amid the loneliness of this land, almost forgot vengeance, almost forgot love, in the immensity of the peace that brooded over the snow-clad wastes. In the hut he had built with his own hands, from spruce timbers, he was snugly sheltered against the austerities of the clime. He had fuel enough, of his gathering along the wooded slopes of the foot-hills. In the maw of the sheet-iron stove, which he had packed, the resinous branches were transmuted into dancing flames, redolent of warmth and cheer in the tiny room of the hut, though outside the blasts from the Pole were cold as the ice from which they came.
The day of his daughter's wedding—though he had no least suspicion that wife, or child, or enemy was within thousands of miles—Jim made a round of his traps. In making the circuit, he was absorbed, without thought, for the time being, of the life that had been, without thought of vengeance, without thought of love. It was only after he had returned at nightfall to the hut, and had fried his mess of bacon on top of the red-hot stove, and had boiled his coffee hard, as one must in the North, where there is need of all the energy from food, that Jim sat down on his bunk of spruce boughs, ready for sleep—yet, for a moment, wakeful.
Then there sounded softly on his ears that old, old lyric of love. It was the song that had been played out of the feeling of his heart for his wife, in the years long gone. It was that improvisation with which he had told Lou his passion on the day when he had heard that Dan McGrew was coming to visit them. Now, Jim had no means of audible expression. Nevertheless, the song welled in him. It thrilled in every atom of his being. It was that same wonderful, joyous, lilting melody, full of life at its best. The tenderness of love rang in its cadences. Jim's fingers tensed—they were hungry to seize the chords, rapacious to pounce on the notes that voiced this heart-song of a lost happiness.
Jim aroused from the trance of memory. He looked to the fire, and rolled into the bunk.... He had heard, that day, in a native iglook, of a find of gold on Forgotten Creek. He recalled the fact drowsily as sleep fell on him.
"I'll take a look across the valley in the morning," he thought. "There's sure to be a stampede."
So it came about on the day following the marriage of Nell Ross and Jack Reeves that there was a watcher who looked out over the valley through which the long line of dogs and men hurried toward the possible riches of Forgotten Creek.
Jim seated himself on the trunk of a fallen spruce, high on the mountainside. From this point, he overlooked the whole length of the valley. He saw at last the animate line darting out of the distance, and watched as it became definite, with a smile of cynical amusement.... These were the hunters of gold. And gold—Bah! There were only two things in the world: love and vengeance.
From his seat on the fallen spruce, Jim Maxwell stared out over the valley. For hours he sat there. He saw the breaking up of the company, as its members scattered in various directions, now that they were come into the region of possible wealth. At the last, the valley showed clear of the human invaders.... And, just then, Jim Maxwell heard a sound, which already he had learned to know, there in the Northland. It was a gentle sound, but with a sibilance that held a threat of danger—like the hiss of a gigantic serpent.
As he heard, Jim instinctively let out a great shout of fear in the presence of this peril so close upon him. In the same moment, without pausing to look up, he dropped from the log on which he had been sitting, and crowded as closely under it as he could, to make it serve as a bulwark—though, indeed, he well knew the futility of such a protection against the avalanche that was now crashing down the slope. Crouched there beneath the log, Jim awaited the issue with an unuttered prayer for escape in his heart—if escape should be possible.
