"Don't worry, Mr. A.", called out the man after me, "Your wife's all right," then in a lower tone to himself, "That fellow'll go daffy over his little wife, as he calls her, if he isn't careful. It's a good thing I haven't any, for I couldn't watch her like that if I did have, that's certain."
I hurried on over the trail, the night being light and clear, the grass dewy, and the sun about to rise; for it was midsummer in Alaska.
Afterwards I remembered these things.
When half way home I saw a horseman coming toward me. He was riding rapidly, and when he drew near I recognized a neighbor. He reined in his horse.
"Good morning, Mr. A.," said he.
"What is it, Peter, tell me quick! Has anything happened at home?" I cried impatiently.
"Mr. A., I am sorry to tell you, but you're"—
"Don't say she is dead! Don't say that!" I begged.
"Mount my horse, and I'll follow. Go as fast as you can for the animal is fresh," said he; but I heard nothing, saw nothing. I was simply clinging to the saddle, as the animal galloped back over the trail.
In a dazed condition I reached home. Our cabin was filled with sympathetic friends, trying to assist in some way. As I came in they dispersed, leaving me alone with Olga.