Our own horse proved a ready victim. To tell the truth, no one but the Jam-wagon was particularly sorry. If there was a sump-hole in sight, that horse was sure to flounder into it. Sometimes twice in one day we had to unhitch the ox and pull him out. There was a place dug out of the snow alongside the trail, which was being used as a knacker's yard, and here we took him with a broken leg and put a bullet in his brain. While we waited there were six others brought in to be shot.
It was a Sunday and we were in the tent, indescribably glad of a day's rest. The Jam-wagon was mending a bit of harness; the Prodigal was playing solitaire. Salvation Jim had just returned from a trip to Skagway, where he had hoped to find a letter from the outside regarding one Jake Mosher. His usually hale and kindly face was drawn and troubled. Wearily he removed his snow-sodden clothes.
"I always did say there was God's curse on this Klondike gold," he said; "now I'm sure of it. There's a hoodoo on it. What it's a-goin' to cost, what hearts it's goin' to break, what homes it's goin' to wreck no man'll ever know. God only knows what it's cost already. But this last is the worst yet."
"What's the matter, Jim?" I said; "what last?"
"Why, haven't you heard? Well, there's just been a snow-slide on the Chilcoot an' several hundred people buried."
I stared aghast. Living as we did in daily danger of snow-slides, this disaster struck us with terror.
"You don't say!" said the Prodigal. "Where?"
"Oh, somewhere's near Lindeman. Hundreds of poor sinners cut off without a chance to repent."
He was going to improve on the occasion when the Prodigal cut in.
"Poor devils! I guess we must know some of them too." He turned to me. "I wonder if your little Polak friend's all right?"