They were gone on the instant, leaving Aline Giraud with her sweet, white face upturned in prayer and her hands clasped in an attitude of fear, parting, and renunciation.
When the uniformed men of the Mounted Police filled the room where Simpson lay dead, Pierre was galloping his dog-team at full speed up the ice-trail of the Klondike.
"Hit it for the Thron-Diuck camps," Laurance had advised. "They're somewhere in them mountains. An' lie low till I send you word by an Indian."
That was how Pierre, heading for the Thron-Diuck encampments near the Klondike's source, found Rex Britton four days later, half dead from starvation and exposure, with his last burned match in his pocket, ravings on his tongue and delirium in his brain, about fifteen miles from Five Mountain Gulch.
CHAPTER XVI.
"Sergeant, this is the devil's own country!" exclaimed Cyril Ainsworth, as he stood outside the Mounted Police post at the head of Lake Bennett.
Sergeant Church laughed heartily. It was late spring and just about the worst time for mosquitoes and black-flies.
"Your introduction to the country hasn't been an exactly pleasant one," he replied, "but it is better than the winter."
"I can't see why men will bury themselves here," the lawyer complained, "especially a man like Britton!"
"He struck it rich," Church said. "He's worth two millions. Yes, Britton's one of Dawson's big guns now!"