They struggled on together through storms and snowdrifts. Little by little the outfit neared the summit that had lain eighteen miles from them when first they landed. Every morning Harrison would load some two hundred and fifty pounds on the sled, pull it up the trail seven miles or so, and come back in the afternoon. And the girl, for she was nothing more, would cook their little meals on the sheet-iron stove, and dry Harrison’s moccasins and coddle him, and tell him how like it all was to a picnic, and how she enjoyed the life. Which was not true.
And so they passed through Canyon City, beyond which there is no God, the packers say, and up to Sheep Camp, which is far up in the mountains on the timber line, and beyond which there lies a frozen desolation that supports no living thing—not even the scrubby spruce that can exist on the bare rock in lower altitudes. Here they disappeared from view, because the horses do not go past Sheep Camp, the trail being too rough; and the packers, not seeing them, could bring no word.
Now, there were hotels of a fashion in Dyea at this time, but the entire downstairs part was usually made into one room, and used as a bar, dance-hall, and gambling house. So when Harrison came back down the trail two weeks later at three o’clock in the morning, he had to elbow his way up to the bar in the Comique to ask for a room. The first bartender looked at him inquiringly, for he had seen the Harrisons on the trail, and the teamsters had said they must be over the summit by now. His curiosity got the better of him.
“Are you the party that went up with a little blonde lady three weeks ago?” he asked.
“I may be,” said Harrison.
“She seemed kind of light for this country,” pursued the bartender. “Hope she’s standing it all right. Did she come down with you?”
“I brought her with me,” said Harrison.
“Isn’t she coming in? She doesn’t have to pass through the saloon here if she don’t like. She can——”
Harrison’s hand went to his forehead. “She’s dead,” he said.
A teamster came in the side door and spoke to him, and he followed the man out. So did two of the dance-hall girls and the first bartender. Outside in one of the big freighting sleds lay Mrs. Harrison. Her flaxen hair waved as in life over the girlish face, hard now as marble and colder. The moon shone full upon her, and a snow crystal hung here and there on the little fur parkee that she wore. She might have been a marble Madonna there in the moonlight. Through the open door came the noise of the next waltz. One of the girls slipped in, and the orchestra stopped. Quickly a little group began to gather, but Harrison did not move. He seemed as in a trance, staring open-eyed, mistily, at the frozen woman in the sled.