George Manville Fenn

"To Win or to Die"

Chapter One.

A break-down.

“It’s a lie! I don’t and I won’t believe it.”

The speaker half whispered that, and then he shouted, “Do you hear?”

There was a pause, and then from the face of a huge white snow-cliff there came back the word “hear.”

“Well done, echo!” cried the speaker.

“Echo,” came back.

“Thankye; that’s quite cheering; anything’s better than that horrible silence. What do they say? When a man gets in the habit of talking to himself it’s a sign that he is going mad? Once more, it’s a lie! A man would go mad in this awful solitude if he didn’t hear some one speaking. Snow, snow, snow, and rock and mountain; and ugh! how cold! Pull up, donkey! jackass! idiot! or you’ll freeze to death.”

The speaker was harnessed by a looped rope to a small, well-packed sledge, after the fashion of one who tracks about along the Thames; but how different here! No sunny river, no verdant flowing mead or hanging summer wood, but winter, stern winter in its wildest, and the heavy sledge, in answer to the tugging at the rope, now sticking fast amongst the heaped-up stones frozen together in a mass, now suddenly gliding down sharp slopes and tripping its owner up, so that again and again, during an awful day’s tramp, he had fallen heavily. But only to struggle up, shake the snow from his fur-lined coat, and continue his journey onward towards the golden land where the nuggets lay in wondrous profusion waiting the bold adventurer’s coming—heaped-up, almost fabulous riches that had lain undiscovered since the beginning of the world.

He, the toiler, dragging that sledge, in which were carefully packed his gun, ammunition, spare clothes, blankets, stores, and sleeping-bag of fur, had started at daylight that morning from the last outpost of civilisation—a miserable shanty at the top of the tremendous pass he had surmounted with the help of the men who occupied the shanty and called themselves guides; and then, after repacking his sledge and trusting to the landmarks ahead and a pocket compass, he had boldly set off, ready to dare every peril, for he was young, sanguine, well-armed, strong, and nerved by hope and the determination to succeed.

It was only a brave struggle over the mountains, and then down into the river valley beyond, to leave the winter behind with its pain and misery, and meet the welcome of the summer sunshine and—the gold.

That morning it was winter indeed; but the adventurer’s heart was warm, and the way through the mountains was plain, while the exertion sent the blood tingling through his veins till he glowed as the rugged miles were mastered.

Then there was the halt and a seat on the sledge for a hasty meal upon the tough provisions; but how delicious every mouthful was!

Then forward again, refreshed for the journey onward, to some snugly sheltered spot where he could camp for the night and sleep in his fur bag, regardless of any number of degrees of frost.

But as the afternoon wore on, the sledge seemed to grow more heavy, the way wilder and more stern, and the stoppages frequent.

He unpacked and rested and refreshed himself. Then he grew cheery once more.

“Lightens the load and me too,” he said with a laugh, as he thrust his head through the loop and tugged at the sledge; but it did not seem lighter. It grew more heavy, and the obstacles were terrible to surmount.

But he knew he was in the right track through the pathless waste of heaped-up snow. There was no mistaking that awful gorge, with the rocks piled up like Titanic walls on either side. He knew that he could not go wrong. All he had to do was to persevere, and he plodded on.

“Never mind if it’s only yards instead of miles surmounted,” he muttered. “They are so many yards nearer the winning post.”

At last, as he fought his way on, with his unwonted exertions beginning to tell mentally and bodily, he broke out talking wildly to fight back the horrible sensation of depression, and was brought to a standstill, the sledge having jammed between two blocks of ice-covered rock; and he stood for some minutes gazing round hopelessly at the fast-dimming scene, which had looked picturesque in the morning, but appeared awful now.

“I ought to have had a companion,” he muttered, “if it had only been a dog.”

He stood still, staring at the precipices on either side, whose chasms were beginning to look black; then at his jammed-in sledge; and he felt that he must drag it out and go on again, for night was coming on, and he could not camp where he was.

Then as he was wearily and slowly stooping down to drag the sledge back, he made a sudden bound as if electrified, tried to run, tripped, and fell heavily.

For all at once there was a roar like thunder, a terrible rushing sound, the echoes of the mountains seemed to have been let loose, and his hair began to bristle, while a cold perspiration gathered on his face as he listened to the sounds dying away in rumbling whispers.

“Away up to the right,” he said to himself as he gazed in that direction, realising that it was a snow-fall. Thousands of tons had gone down somewhere out of sight; but he was safe, and giving the sledge a jerk, he set it free, guided it over the snow, and prepared for another start.

But that avalanche had somewhat unnerved him, for he had been looking out for a place to camp, and it now seemed madness to think of coming to a halt there.

“Must find a safer place,” he thought; and now fresh dangers began to suggest themselves. Would there be wolves in these mountains? Certainly there must be bears; and dragging off one of his big fur gloves, he took out and examined his revolver, before replacing it in its leather holster. He glanced, too, at his rifle in its woollen case, bound on the top of the loaded sledge.

“Bah! how cowardly one can turn!” he muttered. “Of course, there will be all those troubles to face. I’m fagged—that’s what it is. Now, then, old fellow, gee up! I’ll camp in the first sheltered nook I see; I’m sure to find one soon. Then supper in the warm bag and a good night’s rest. Sleep? I could lie down and sleep here in the snow. Pull up! That’s the way. I wonder how much gold I could drag on a sledge like this?”

For quite another hour he toiled on, and perhaps got over a quarter of a mile, always gazing anxiously ahead for a suitable shelter, but looking in vain.

Then he utterly broke down, catching his foot against a block which the darkness hid from his fast-dimming eyes; and with a sob of misery as he saved himself from striking his face, at the expense of a heavy wrench to one wrist, he lay perfectly still, feeling a strange drowsy sensation creeping over him.

“This will not do,” he cried aloud in alarm, for he knew that giving way to such a feeling in the snow meant resigning himself to death; and he painfully rose to his knees, and then remained, staring wildly before him, wondering whether he was already dreaming. For not far away, flashing and quivering in reflections from the precipice wall on his left, there was a light which kept rising and falling.

No dream, but the reflected light of a camp fire. Others, bound upon the same mission as himself, must be close at hand; and staggering now to his feet, he placed his gloved hands to his lips and gave forth a loud echoing “Ahoy!”

The next moment his heart beat high with joy, and the horrible perils of frost and darkness in that unsheltered place faded away into nothingness, for his hail was answered from close at hand.

“Ahoy! Who is it?” came echoing back.

“Help!” shouted the adventurer; and then he sank upon his sledge with heart throbbing and a strange giddiness attacking him.

Chapter Two.

Fallen among thieves.

“Hullo, there!” cried a rough voice. “Why don’t you come on?” and the next minute a couple of figures seemed to start out of the darkness.

“I’m fagged out. Can you lend me a hand?”

“Lend you a hand? Yes,” said another voice. “Where’s your mate?”

“I’m alone.”

“Alone? No pal with you?”

“No, and my sledge has stuck fast. Will you help me as far as your fire?”

“Got a sled, hev you? All right, mate. Where’s the line? Lay hold, Leggy, while I give it a hyste. That’s your sort. Come on.” It seemed like a dream, and as if all the peril and horror had passed away, as the two men dragged the sledge along and the adventurer staggered on beside them, till they halted in the ruddy light of a great fire, lit at the foot of a stupendous wall of glistening ice-covered rock. The fire of pine-boughs crackled and flashed, and lit up the face of a third man, a big red-bearded fellow, who was kneeling down tending the embers and watching a camp kettle slung from three sticks, the contents of which were beginning to steam.

“Here we are, Beardy,” said one of the rescue party. “Comp’ny gent on his travels.”

The kneeling man scowled at the speaker, and then put his hand behind him as if from instinct, but dropped it as the other said:

“It’s all right, Beardy. Number four’s empty, isn’t it? Because if it aren’t, you’ll have to give up your room.”

The big red-bearded man showed some prominent yellow teeth in a grin, nodded, and pushed a blazing brand under the kettle.

“Sit down, youngster,” said the first speaker. “Maybe you’ll jyne us at supper?”

“I shall be very glad.”

“Right you are, and welcome! ’Aven’t brought anything with you, I suppose?”

“Yes, I have some cake and bacon.”

“Well done, young un. Get it out,” said the red-bearded man, and, recovered somewhat by his warm reception, the young adventurer began to unlash the load upon the sledge, the two men who had come to his aid eagerly joining in, their eyes glistening as they examined the various objects that were set free.

“Going yonder after the yaller stuff?” said the owner of the red beard, as they squatted round the fire.

“Yes.”

“And all alone, too?”

The traveller nodded, and held his half-numbed hands in the warm glow, as he furtively glanced round at his companions, whose aspect was by no means reassuring.

“Well,” continued the last speaker, “I dunno what Yankee Leggat thinks, and I dunno what Joey Bredge has got to say, but what I says is this. You’re a-going to do what’s about as silly a thing as a young man can do.”

“Why?”

“Why?” said the man fiercely; “because you’re going to try and do what no chap can do all alone. You’ve got a good kit and some money, I s’pose; but you don’t think you’re going to get to the gold stuff, do you?”

“Of course I do.”

The man showed his yellow teeth in an unpleasant grin, and winked at his companions.

“And all alone, eh? ’Tain’t to be done, lad. You’ll be stuck up before you yet half-way there by Injuns, or some o’ they Yankee shacks yonder, stripped o’ everything you’ve got, and set adrift, eh, Joey?”

The man addressed nodded and grunted.

“What should you say he ought to do, Leggy?”

“Make his hay while the sun shines,” said the other. “He’s tumbled into a bit o’ luck, and if he knows what he’s about he’ll just stop along with us. We don’t want him, seeing as our party’s made up, but we don’t want to be hard on a lad as is a bit hign’rant o’ what he’s got to go through.”

“That’s so,” put in the man addressed as Joey. “You can’t do it, mate. Why, if it hadn’t been for us you’d ha’ been a hicicle afore morning, if the bears and wolves hadn’t tucked you up warm inside. You’ve got to take a good offer. Now, Beardy, bring out the tins; that soup’s done by this time.”

The traveller made no reply, but leaned a little more over the fire, wishing that he had braved the dangers of the bitter frost and snow, and feeling that he had been too ready to break down at the first encounter with trouble. For the more he saw of his new companions the less he, liked them, and he was not long in making up his mind what to do.

By this time three big tin cups, which fitted one into the other, had been produced, and filled from the steaming contents of the kettle.

“We didn’t expect company,” said the cook, “so two of us’ll have to do with one tin, and have it filled twice. You and me’ll join, Joey, and let squire have my tin.”

“No, thank you,” was the reply, made quietly and firmly. “I will not intrude on your good nature farther. I was a bit done up, but the fire has set me right again, and I’m quite ready to take the risks of the journey alone.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said the man gruffly.

“I’ll get you to let me rest here by the fire for an hour to eat my bit of bread and meat, and then I’ll camp near you and go on again as I came. I shall manage, I daresay.”

“Are we going to stand this, mates?” cried the red-bearded man fiercely.

“No!” came in answer, as all sprang up as if by a preconcerted signal.

“You misunderstand me, gentlemen,” said the adventurer quietly, though his heart beat fast with the knowledge that the suspicions which had haunted him were correct. “I am much obliged for your kindness, and I want to save you trouble, that is all.”

“Hear that, lads? We aren’t good enough for the likes of him. All right, then, off he goes.”

“Our company aren’t good enough, eh? Then off you goes.”

“Very well,” said the young man, rising quickly; “but there is no need for a quarrel. I will go at once, and I thank you for what you have done.”

“But we haven’t done yet,” cried the man addressed as Leggy. “Now, boys.”

There was a sudden rush, and in an instant the young fellow was seized and thrown upon his face; then, in spite of his desperate struggles, he was turned over, his weapon seized, and everything of value dragged from his pockets.

“Quiet!” snarled the leader in the attack, “or I’ll soon quiet you.”

“You dogs! You scoundrels! Help! Thieves!”

“Louder, my lad, louder. Call police: there’s some over yonder in Canady. Haul off that fur coat, lads. It’ll just fit me, and I’ll have his cap and gloves. That’s right. Now then, my whippersnapper, off you go!”

Set free, the young man, in spite of his bubbling rage, felt the madness of further resistance, and the uselessness of wasting breath; so he sprang to his sledge, to begin lashing it fast with the rope.

“Hands off there!” roared the chief scoundrel, taking aim at him. “Now then, run for it, and get yourself warm before we begin to shoot.”

“I’m going,” panted the victim, “but I must fasten up my traps.”

“You ain’t got no traps. They’re ourn,” cried the man. “We give you a chance for your life, so cut at once.”

“What! Send me away like this?” cried the young man, aghast. “It’s murder! Let me have my blankets, man.”

“Run!” shouted the scoundrel, and he shook his pistol.

“You coward!” cried the victim.

“Run!” was roared again.

Feeling that the gang into whose hands he had fallen probably meant to hide their crime by silencing him for ever, the victim turned and ran for his life, and as he ran he felt a sharp pang in the arm.

A heavy fall checked the victim’s panic flight, and as he lay panting and wet with the perspiration which had started from every pore, he realised that one of the bullets had taken effect, ploughing his left arm, which throbbed as if being seared with a red-hot iron.

But the bodily agony was as nothing to the mental anguish which he suffered. Death was before him if he lay there—death in a painless, insidious form, no doubt; but still, death in all its horror to one so young and strong.

He knew that he must rise and keep moving if he wished to prolong his existence, and he rose to his feet, raging now against the cowardly gang, and more against himself.

“I was a fool and a coward,” he groaned. “Why didn’t I fight for my life? Great heaven! What shall I do?”

He paused for a moment, meaning to turn back and make an attack upon his enemies.

But, unarmed as he was, he knew it was madness, and he tramped on through the darkness in the faint hope of finding help, but with his heart sinking as he grasped the fact that fate or the management of the gang had driven him onward farther into the defile, and away from the aid he might have found if he had made his way back to his morning’s starting-place.

Fully satisfied that death would be his portion, he struggled on aimlessly till utterly exhausted; and then he paused, breathless, to go over once more the scene by the glowing fire, and ask himself whether he had not been to blame for displaying his distrust after the way in which he had been rescued. But he could only come back to his old way of thinking—that he had fallen among thieves of the worst type, and that he owed his life to the prompt way in which he had escaped.

Recovering his breath somewhat, he stood listening as he gazed back through the darkness; but all was still. There were no signs of pursuit, so, taking out his handkerchief, he folded it into a bandage, and with one hand and his teeth contrived to bind and tie it tightly round his wound so as to stop the bleeding, which was beginning to cause a strange sensation of faintness.

He had been hot with exertion when he stopped, but now the feeling of exhilaration caused by his escape died out as rapidly as the heat. A deadly chill attacked mind and body, for his position seemed crushing. It was horrible beyond bearing, and for the moment he was ready to throw himself down in his despair. The intense cold would, he knew, soon bring on a sensation of drowsiness, which would result in sleep, and there would be no pain—nothing but rest from which there would be no awakening; and then—

Then the coward feeling was driven back in a brave effort—a last struggle for life.

The cold was intense, the darkness thicker than ever, for the sides of the ravine had been closing in till only a narrow strip of faintly marked sky was visible, while at every few steps taken slowly the poor fellow stumbled over some inequality and nearly fell.

At times he struck himself heavily, but he was beyond feeling pain, and in his desperation these hindrances acted merely as spurs to fresh effort, for he was on the way to safety. At any minute he felt that he might catch sight of another gleam of light, the camp fire of some other adventurer, and he knew that some of those on the way to the great Eldorado must be men who would help and even protect a fellow-creature in his dire state of peril.

But he knew that this intense feeling of energy could not last, that he was rapidly growing weaker, and that ere many minutes had elapsed he would once more stumble and fall, and this time the power to rise again would have passed away.

Was it too late to return to his enemies and make an appeal for his life? he asked himself at last. They might show him mercy, and life was so sweet.

But as these thoughts flickered through his brain in the half delirium fast deadening his power of thinking coherently, he once more saw the scene by the fire, and the faces of the three scoundrels stood out clearly with that relentless look, that cruel bestial glare of the eye, which told him that an appeal would but hasten his end.

“Better fall into the hands of God than men like them,” he groaned, and setting his teeth hard he tottered on a few yards farther, with the snow growing less deep, the ground more stony.

Then the end came sooner than he expected, for his feet caught against something stretched across his way, and he fell heavily, uttering a cry of horror as he struggled to his knees.

For it was no block of stone, no tree-trunk torn from some shelf in the precipice above; he grasped the fact in an instant that he had tripped over a sledge similar to his own, to fall headlong upon the ghastly evidence of what was to be his own fate; for stiff and cold in the shallow snow, his fingers had come upon the body of some unfortunate treasure-seeker, and as, half-wild with horror, he forced himself to search with his hands to discover whether some spark of life might yet be burning, it was to find that whoever it was must have laid calmly down in his exhaustion, clasping his companion to his breast to give and receive the warmth that might save both their lives.

Vain effort. The man’s breast was still for ever, and the faithful dog that had nestled closely with his muzzle in his master’s neck was stiff and stark.

“God help me!” groaned the adventurer, clasping his hands and letting them fall softly on the dead; “is this the ending of my golden dream?”

Chapter Three.

In the dark.

The horrible chill of impending death, the bright light of reason, and the intense desire to live, roused the half-stunned adventurer to action.

Die? Like that? No!—when salvation was offered to him in this way.

It was horrible, but it was for life. There, close by him, slightly powdered with snow, was the unfortunate’s sledge, and in an instant he was tearing at the rope which bound its load to the framework.

He could hardly believe his good fortune, for as the rope fell from the packages the first thing he set free was a fur-lined coat, possibly one which the dead man was too much exhausted to assume.

Suffering keenly from the cold, this was put on at once; and then, continuing the search, it was to find that a rifle was bound along one side, balanced by tools on the other. Then there were blankets and stores similar, as far as he could judge, to those with which his own sledge had been laden.

The warmth afforded by the thick garment and the exertion increased the thrill of returning energy. For he was no longer helpless to continue his journey. It could be no act of injustice to the dead to take possession of the means of saving his own life; and now all thought of giving up without making a desperate struggle was completely gone.

Soon after a fresh thrill of returning energy swept through him, and, turning quickly back to where the dead were lying, he knelt there, hesitating for a few moments before, with his determination increasing, he softly thrust the dog aside, and felt about the dead man’s waist.

He shuddered as his hands came in contact with the icy feeling of cold, but it was for life, and a feeling of joy shot through him, for it was as he had hoped. In a few minutes he had unfastened a buckle, turned the body over slightly, and that which he sought to obtain yielded to the steady pull he gave.

He had drawn free the dead man’s belt, bringing with it his revolver in its little holster and the pouchful of cartridges.

That seemed to give new life to him as he buckled the belt about his waist. Then, taking out the pistol, he felt it in the dark, to find that it was loaded in every chamber, and that the lock worked easily and well.

The pistol replaced in the belt, the young man remained thinking, with all his energy seeming to have returned. What was he to do next? There was food of some kind on the sledge, and he must eat. There were blankets, and with them and the sledge for shelter he must rest and sleep.

There was the dead man and his faithful dog, but their near presence brought no feeling of horror. He felt that he could kneel down by the poor fellow and offer up a prayer for His mercies, and then lie down to sleep in perfect trust of awakening at daybreak, for he was no longer suffering from exhaustion, and hardly felt the cold.

“But not yet—not yet,” he muttered, and a faint sound broke the silence as he stood there, his teeth grinding softly together, while his next words, uttered half aloud, told the direction his thoughts had taken.

“The cowardly dogs!” he exclaimed. “Three to one, and him unarmed. But not now—not now.”

A brief search brought his hands in contact with a canvas satchel-bag, in which were ship’s biscuits, and one of these he took. It would suffice.

Breaking it and beginning to eat, he set off at once on the back track to execute his daring project, one which made him glow to his finger-tips.

“Better go on,” he said with a mocking laugh. “Yes, but not yet. They’re cowards—such scoundrels always are—and the darkness will magnify the number of the attack.

“Bah! talking to myself again; but I’m not going mad. I can’t go on without letting them taste something of what they have given me.”

He tramped on slowly, but the return journey seemed less difficult, and he wondered now that he should feel so fresh and glowing with a spreading warmth. It was as dark as ever, but he had no fear of not finding his way; and sooner than he expected, and just as he was finishing the last scrap of hard biscuit, he caught sight of the faint light of the fire from which he had been driven.

The sight of it sent fresh vigour through his limbs, and his plan was soon made. He would keep on till there was the risk of being heard, and then creep closer till well within shot, and his sleeping enemies thrown up by the fire, which they had evidently made up well before settling themselves down for the night.

He felt sure that at the first report they would spring up and run for their lives, and he meant to fire at each if he had time, and scare them, for he felt disposed to show as much mercy as he would to a pack of savage wolves.

But matters were not to fall out exactly as he had calculated. He tramped steadily on, with the fire growing brighter, and at last he took out the revolver to examine it by touch once more, as he walked on more swiftly now, meaning to go forward a hundred yards or so and then proceed more cautiously, so as to make sure the enemy was asleep.

All at once he stopped short, startled.

The enemy was not asleep, for he saw a dark shadow pass before the glowing light.

The adventurer stopped short for a few moments, but not in hesitation. It was merely to alter his plan of attack; but the next minute all planning was cast to the winds, for there rang out on the night air a wild cry for help—such an appeal as he had himself uttered so short a time before.

The cry was repeated, sending a thrill of excitement through the listener, and telling its own tale. To the hearer it was as plain as if he had been told that the gang of ruffians had waylaid another unfortunate, who was about to share his own fate.

He rushed forward at once, and as he ran and stumbled he could see that a desperate struggle was going on, figures in fierce contention passing in front of and once trampling through the fire, whose embers were kicked and scattered in all directions.

Suddenly two figures stepped aside into the full light, leaving two others wrestling together; and this was the opportunity needed. Their first victim could see plainly that the former were enemies, and stopping short when about twenty yards away, he fired. Both turned to gaze in the direction from which the flash and report had come.

They were in time to see another flash. Another report raised the echoes, and they turned and fled.

Then the struggle ceased, and the adventurer saw another figure disappearing into the darkness after his two companions.

As he dashed off the young fellow rushed up in time to seize the victim, who staggered helplessly, trampling among the burning embers, among which he would have fallen but for the willing hands which dragged him aside, and lowered him down, before their owner began to kick about and scatter the fire, which hissed and smoked and steamed, as snow was heaped over, and raised a veil to hide the pair from their enemies while the bright light was dying out.

The next act was to find out whether the enemy were yet in the vicinity. The adventurer advanced for some distance into the darkness, but all was still.

Satisfied that he could not be seen, the young man went on for some little distance; but it was evident that the sudden attack had done its work, and the party had fled for their lives.

“The question is, will they recover themselves and come back?” he muttered. “Well, we must be on our guard. Two in the right against three in the wrong. Those are fair odds. Two in the right! Suppose it is only one.”

He hurried back towards the scene of the encounter, guided by the faintly glowing embers lying here and there, and the dark, blinding wood-smoke which was borne towards him by the light icy wind which came down the defile.

“Suppose they have killed him!”

“Who are you? But whoever you are,” came in a hoarse whisper, “if it hadn’t been for you those ruffians would have settled me.”

“Thank heaven, then, I was in time. Can you help me trample out the rest or this fire?”

“Hadn’t we better escape? You might help me drag my sled into a place of safety.”

“There is no place of safety near,” was the reply; “and it’s cold enough to freeze us to death. We had better stay here.”

“But we dare not light a fire; they would see us, and come and pick us off.”

“I don’t think the cowardly hounds will dare to come back.”

“But they might, and I dare not risk it.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Not seriously, but wrenched and strained in the struggle. Can you understand what I say? I don’t know my own voice.”

“Yes, I can hear you. What is it—a cold?”

“No; I was right enough an hour ago. That red-bearded dog caught me by the throat. He was trying to strangle me. I fired at random, and then my senses were going, but I heard your shots. He has quite taken away my voice. Where is your hand, sir?”

“Here: what do you want?”

“Just to make mine speak to it in a friendly grip. God bless you, sir! you’ve saved my life. I can’t say more now.”

“Don’t. There: we have no light to betray us now.”

Chapter Four.

Nature’s mistake.

“But hadn’t we better go on?”

“No: warmth is everything here. The ground is hot where the fire was, and we’ll camp there till morning. I saw you had a sledge. We’ll drag that to one side for shelter.”

“And there is theirs, too,” was said huskily.

“Mine!” was the reply. “The scoundrels inveigled me into staying with them, and I had a narrow escape.”

“Hah! Just as they served me. I saw their light and came up, and they professed to be friends. I didn’t like the look of them, but one can’t pick one’s company out here, and a good fire was very tempting.”

“Hist!”

The warning was followed by the clicking of pistol locks, after which the pair listened patiently for some minutes.

“Nothing. Here, let’s get the two sledges one on either side of the hot ground. One will be a shelter, the other a breastwork to fire over if the scoundrels come back. Besides, the breastwork will keep in the heat. We are bound to protect ourselves.”

“All right,” was the reply, in an answering whisper, and the pair dragged the two sledges into position, and then, allowing for the dank odour of the quenched wood, found that they had provided themselves with a snugly warm shelter, adding to their comfort by means of blankets and a waterproof sheet, which they spread beneath them.

This took time, for every now and then they paused to listen or make a reconnaissance in search of danger; but at last all was done, and the question was who should keep the first watch.

“I’ll do that,” said the last comer. “I couldn’t lie down to sleep if I tried; my throat gives me so much pain. It feels swollen right up. I’ll take the first watch—listen, one ought to say. Why, I can’t even see my hand.”

“It is terribly dark here in this gulch,” was the whispered reply. “The mountains run up perpendicularly on either side. But I couldn’t sleep after all I’ve gone through to-night. My nerves are all on the jar. I’ll watch with you.”

“Listen.”

“Well, listen, then. Watch with our ears. Can you hear me when I whisper?”

“Oh, yes.”

“But they will not come back, I’m sure.”

“So much the better for them; but I hope that the miserable, treacherous hounds will meet their reward. So they attacked you just in the same way?”

“Not till I told them I would not stay; and I was sorry afterwards, feeling that perhaps I had insulted them by my suspicions. Of course, I did not know their character then.”

“No. Well, we know it now. It is a specimen, I suppose, of the scum we shall find yonder.”

“I am afraid so.”

“You are going after gold, of course?”

“Who would be here if he were not?”

“Exactly. I hope the game is going to be worth the candle. Suppose we two stick together. You won’t try to choke me the first time you see me nodding off to sleep for the sake of my sledge and stores?”

“Oh, I’ll promise you that.”

“It was a startler. I was dog tired.”

“Eh?”

“I was dog tired, and dropping off in the warmth of the fire into a golden dream of being where the nuggets were piled up all around me; and I was just going to pick up one, when a great snake darted at me and coiled itself round my throat. Then I was awake, to find it was a real devil snake in the shape of that red-bearded ruffian.”

“That was the one the others called Beardy. But don’t you talk so much: your voice is growing worse.”

“Can’t help it, old fellow. I must talk. I’m so excited. Feel the cold?”

“Oh, no. I’m quite warm with the glow which comes up through the sheet. A good idea, that was, of bringing it on your sledge.”

“Yes, but it’s heavy. I say, though, what an experience this is, here in the pitchy darkness. Ah! Look out!”

The pistols clicked again, for from somewhere close at hand there was a faint rustling sound, followed by a heavy thud, as if some one had stumbled and fallen in the snow.

The pair listened breathlessly in the black darkness, straining their eyes in the direction from whence the sound had come; but all was perfectly still.

They listened again minute after minute, and there was a dull throbbing sound which vibrated through them; but it was only the heavy beating of their own hearts.

Then they both started violently, for there was another dull heavy thud, and some one hissed as if drawing in his breath to suppress the strong desire to utter a cry of pain.

It was horrible in that intense blackness to crouch there with pistols held ready directed towards the spot where whoever it was had fallen, for there could be no doubt whatever. There had been the fall, not many yards from where they knelt, and they listened vainly for the rustling that must accompany the attempt to get up again.

At last the faint rustling came, and the temptation to fire was almost too strong to be resisted. But they mastered it, and waited, both determined and strung up with the desire to mete out punishment to the cowardly miscreants who sought for their own gain to destroy their fellow-creatures.

“Don’t fire till you are sure it is they,” each of the two young men thought. “It is impossible to take aim in this darkness.”

And they waited till the rustling ended in a sort of whisper.

Once more all was silent, and the suspense grew maddening, as they waited minutes which seemed like hours.

But the enemy was evidently astir, for there was another whisper, and another—strange warning secretive whispers—and a sigh as of one in pain.

At this one of the listeners thrust out a hand, and the other joined in an earnest grip, which told of mutual trust and determination to stand by each other to the death, making them feel that the terrible emergency had made them, not acquaintances of an hour’s length, but staunch friends, both strong and tried. Then they loosened the warm, manly grip, and were ready for the worst.

For there was no longer any doubt: the enemy was close at hand, waiting the moment for the deadly rush. The only question was whether they should fire at once—not with the thought of hitting, but to teach the scoundrels how thoroughly they were on the alert, and in the hope of driving them into taking to flight once more.

But they doubted. A few shots had done this once, but now that the miscreants had had time to recover from their panic, would it answer again?

Thud! thud! in front, and then a far heavier one behind them. They could not hold out much longer. The enemy was creeping towards them.

At this moment there was a tremendous crack, a hissing roar, and a terrific concussion, the defenders of the tiny fort being struck down behind their little breastwork.

But this onslaught was not from the enemy they awaited. The ever-gathering snow from far above, loosened by the hot current of air ascending from the fire, had come down in one awful charge, and the marauders’ camp was buried in an instant beneath thousands of tons of snow.

Chapter Five.

Hand in hand.

There was the sense of a terrible weight pressing the sufferers down, with their chests against the soft load bound upon the sledge in front; and utterly stunned, they lay for a time motionless, and almost breathless.

Then one began to struggle violently, striving to draw himself back, and after a tremendous effort succeeding, to find that beneath him the snow was loose, there being a narrow space along by the side of the sledge, and that though his breath came short he could still breathe.

He had hardly grasped this fact when the movement on his right told of a similar action going on, and he began to help his companion in misfortune, who directly after crouched down beside him, panting heavily, in the narrow space, which their efforts had, however, made wider.

“Horrible!” panted the second at last. “An avalanche. Surely this does not mean death.”

There was no reply, and in the awful darkness a hand was stretched out and an arm grasped.

“Why don’t you say something?” whispered the speaker hoarsely.

“What can I say, man? God only knows.”

“But it is only snow. We must burrow our way out. Wait a moment. This way is towards the open valley.”

“No, no; this. Beyond you is the wall of rock. Let me try.”

For the next ten minutes there was the sound of one struggling to get through the snow, and then it ended with the hoarse panting of a man lying exhausted with his efforts.

“Let me come and try now,” came in smothered accents.

“It is of no use. The snow was loose at first, but farther on it is pressed together hard like ice. Try your way.”

The scuffling and tearing commenced now to the right.

“Yes; it’s quite loose now, and falls down. Ah! no good; here is the solid rock running up as far as I can reach.”

“I can hardly breathe. It is growing hotter every moment.”

“No; it is cooler here. I can reach right up and stand against the rock.”

The speaker’s companion in the terrible peril crept over the snow to his side and rose to his feet, to find the air purer; and, like a drowning man who had raised his head for the moment above water, he drank in deep draughts of the cold, sweet air.

“Hah!” he gasped at last hoarsely, after reaching up as high as he could, “the rock has saved us for the moment. The snow slopes away from it like the roof of a shed.”

“Yes; if we had been a few feet farther from it we should have been crushed to death. Let’s try and tear a way along by the foot of the rock.”

They tried hard in turn till they were utterly exhausted and lay panting; but the only result was that the loose snow beneath them became trampled down. No, not the only result; they increased the space within what was fast becoming a snow cavern, one of whose walls was the solid rocky side of the ravine.

“Are we to die like this?”

“Is this to be the end of all our golden hopes? Oh, heaven help us! What shall we do? The air is growing hotter; we have nearly exhausted it all, and suffocation is coming on fast. I can’t, I won’t die yet. Help! help! help!”

Those three last words came in a hoarse faint wail that sounded smothered and strange.

“Hush!” cried the other; “be a man. You are killing yourself. The air is not worse. I can breathe freely still.”

There was a horrible pause, and then, in pitiful tones: “I am fighting down this fearful feeling of cowardice, but it is so hard—so hard to die so soon. Not twenty yet, and the bright world and all its hopeful promise before one. How can you keep like that? Are you not afraid to die?”

“Yes,” came in a low, sad whisper; “but we must not die like this. Tell me you can breathe yet?”

“Yes,” came in the husky, grating tones; “better and better now I am still.”

“Then there is hope. We are on the track; others will come after a time, and we may be dug out.”

“Hah! I dare not think it. I say.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think those wretches have been caught by the fall as well?”

“If they were near they must have been.”

“Yes, and we heard them.”

“No, no,” sighed the other; “those were patches of snow falling that we heard.”

There was silence then, save that twice over a soft whisper was heard, and then a low, deep sigh.

“I say.”

“Yes?”

“I feel sure that air must come to us. I can breathe quite easily still.”

“Yes.”

“Then we must try and bear it for a time. I’m going to believe that we may be dug out. Shall we try to sleep, and forget our horrible position?”

“Impossible, my lad. For me, that is. You try.”

“No; you are right. I couldn’t sleep. But, yes, I can breathe better still. There must be air coming in from up above. Well, why don’t you speak? Say something, man.”

“I cannot talk.”

“You must—you shall, so as to keep from thinking of our being—oh, help! help! help!”

“Man, man! don’t cry out in that horrible way;” and one shook the other fiercely, till he sobbed out, “Yes; go on. I am a coward; but the thought came upon me, and seemed to crush me.”

“What thought? That we must die?”

“No, no,” groaned the other in his husky voice; “that we are buried alive.”

Once more there was silence, during which the elder and firmer grasped the hand of his brother in adversity. “Yes, yes,” he whispered, “it is horrible to think of; but for our manhood’s sake keep up, lad. We are not children, to be frightened of being in the dark.”

“No; you are right.”

“Here, help me sweep away the snow from under us. No, no. Here is the waterproof sheet. We can drag it out—yes, I can feel the sledges. Let’s drag out those blankets.”

“No, no, don’t stir; you may bring down the snow roof upon our heads. I mean, yes. I’ll try and help you.”

They worked busily for a few minutes, and then knelt together upon what felt like a soft couch.

“There’s food, and the snow for water; it would be long before we should starve. Why are you so silent now? Come, we must rest, and then try to cut our way out when the daylight comes.”

“The daylight!” said the other, with a mocking laugh.

“Yes; we may see a dim dawn to show us which way to tunnel.”

“Ah, of course!”

“Could you sleep now?”

“No, no; we must talk, or I shall go off my head. That brute hurt me so, it has made me rather strange. Yes, I must talk. I say: God bless you, old fellow! You saved my life from those wretches, and now you’re keeping me from going mad. I say! The air is all right.”

“Yes; I can breathe freely, and I am not cold.”

“I am hot. I say, let’s talk. Tell me how you came to be here.”

“Afterwards; the words would not come now. You tell me how you came.”

“Yes; it will keep off the horrors; it’s like a romance, and now it does not seem to be true. And yet it is, and it happened just as if it were only yesterday. I never thought of coming out here. I was going to be a soldier.”

He spoke in a hurried, excited way, and the listener heard him draw his breath sharply through his teeth from time to time, as if he shivered from nervous dread.

“I was not fit for a soldier. Fate knows best. See what a coward I am.”

“I thought you brave.”

“What!”

“For the way in which you have fought and mastered the natural dread; but go on.”

“Oh, no; it seems nonsense to talk about my troubles at a time like this.”

“It is not. Go on, if you can without hurting yourself more.”

“I’ll go on because it will hurt me more. It will give me something else to think of. Can you understand my croaking whisper?”

“Oh, yes.”

“An uncle of mine brought me up after father and mother died.”

“Indeed?”

“Dear old fellow! He and aunt quite took my old people’s place; and their boy, my cousin, always seemed like my brother.”

The listener made a quick movement.

“What is it? Hear anything?”

“No; go on.”

“They were such happy times. I never knew what trouble was, till one day poor uncle was brought home on a gate. His horse had thrown him.”

There was a pause, and then the speaker continued in an almost inaudible whisper:

“He was dead.”

The listener uttered a strange ejaculation.

“Yes, it was horrible, wasn’t it? And there was worse to come. It nearly killed poor dear old aunt, and when she recovered a bit it was to hear the news from the lawyers. I don’t quite understand how it was even now—something about a great commercial smash—but all uncle’s money was gone, and aunt was left penniless.”

“Great heavens!” came in a strange whisper.

“You may well say that. Bless her! She had been accustomed to every luxury, and we boys had had everything we wished. My word! it was a knockdown for poor old Dal.”

“Who was poor old Dal?” said the listener, almost inaudibly.

“Cousin Dallas—Dallas Adams. I thought the poor chap would have gone mad. He was just getting ready for Cambridge. But after a bit he pulled himself together, and ‘Never mind, Bel,’ he said—I’m Bel, you know; Abel Wray—‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘now’s the time for a couple of strong fellows like we are to show that we’ve got some stuff in us. Bel,’ he said, ‘the dear old mother must never know what it is to want.’”

It was the other’s turn to draw in his breath with a low hissing sound, and the narrator’s voice sounded still more husky and strange, as if he were touched by the sympathy of his companion, as he went on:

“I said nothing to Dal, but I thought a deal about how easy it was to talk, but how hard for fellows like us to get suitable and paying work. But if I said nothing, I lay awake at nights trying to hit on some plan, till the idea came—ah! is that the snow coming down?”

“No, no! It was only I who moved.”

“But what—what are you doing? Why, you’ve turned over on your face.”

“Yes, yes; to rest a bit.”

“I’m trying you with all this rigmarole about a poor, unfortunate beggar.”

“No, no!” cried the other fiercely. “Go on—go on.”

The narrator paused for a few moments.

“Thank you, old fellow,” he whispered softly, and he felt for and grasped the listener’s hand, to press it hard. “I misjudged you. It’s pleasant to find a bit of sympathy like this. I’ve often read how fellows in shipwrecks, and wounded men after battles, are drawn together and get to be like brothers, and it makes one feel how much good there is in the world, after all. I expect you and I will manage to keep alive for a few days, old chap, and then we shall have to make up our minds to die—like men. I won’t be so cowardly any more. I feel stronger, and till we do go to sleep once and for all we’ll make the best of it, like men.”

“Yes, yes, yes! Go on—go on!”

Chapter Six.

A strange madness.

It was some time, though, before the narrative was continued, and then it was with this preface.

“Don’t laugh at me, old chap. The shock of all this has made me as weak and hysterical as a girl. I say, I’m jolly glad it’s so dark.”

“Laugh at you!”

“I say, if you speak in that way I shall break down altogether. That fellow choked a lot of the man out of me, and then the excitement, and on the top of it this horrible burying alive—it has all been too much for me.”

“Go on—go on.”

“Yes, yes, I will. I told you the idea came, but I didn’t say a word to my cousin for fear he should think it mad; and as to hinting at such a thing to the dear old aunt, I felt that it would half kill her. I made up my mind that she should not know till I was gone.

“Well, I went straight to the ‘Hard Nut’—that’s Uncle Morgan. We always called him the nut that couldn’t be cracked—the roughest, gruffest old fellow that ever breathed, and he looked so hard and sour at me that I wished I hadn’t gone, and was silent. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose you two boys mean to think about something besides cricket and football now. You’ve got to work, sir, work!’”

“Hah!” sighed the listener.

“‘Yes, uncle,’ I said, ‘and I want to begin at once.’

“‘Humph!’ he said. ‘Well, that’s right. But what do you want with me?’

“‘I want you to write me a cheque for a hundred pounds.’

“‘Oh,’ he said, in the harsh, sneering way in which he always spoke to us boys; for he didn’t approve of us being educated so long. He began work early, and made quite a fortune. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘do you? Hadn’t I better make it five?’

“‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve thought it all out. One hundred will do exactly.’

“‘What for?’ he said with a snap.

“‘I’m off to Klondike.’

“‘Off to Jericho!’ he snarled.

“‘No, to Klondike, to make a fortune for the poor old aunt.’

“‘Humph!’ he grunted, ‘and is Dallas going with you to make the second fool in the pair?’

“‘No, uncle,’ I said; ‘one fool’s enough for that job. Dal will stop with his mother, I suppose, and try to keep her. I’m nobody, and I’ll take all risks and go.’

“‘Yes, one fool’s enough, sir,’ he said, ‘for a job like that. But I don’t believe there is any gold there.’

“‘Oh, yes, there is, sir,’ I said.

“‘What does Dallas say?’

“‘Nothing. He doesn’t know, and he will not know till aunt gets my letter, and she tells him.’

“‘As if the poor old woman hadn’t enough to suffer without you going off, sir,’ he said.

“‘But I can’t stop and live upon her now, uncle.’

“‘Of course you can’t, sir. But what about the soldiering, and the scarlet and gold lace?’

“‘Good-bye to it all, sir,’ I said with a gulp, for it was an awful knockdown to a coxcomb of a chap like I was, who had reckoned on the fine feathers and spurs and the rest of it.

“‘Humph!’ he grunted, ‘and you think I am going to give—lend you a hundred pounds to go on such a wild goose chase?’

“‘I hope so, uncle,’ I said.

“‘Hope away, then; and fill yourself with the unsatisfactory stuff, if you like. No, sir; if you want to go gold-digging, shoulder your swag and shovel, pick and cradle, and tramp there.’

“‘How?’ I said, getting riled, for the old nut seemed harder than ever. ‘I can’t tramp across three thousand miles of ocean. I could hardly tramp over three thousand miles of land, and when I did reach the Pacific, if I could, there’s the long sea journey from Vancouver up to Alaska, and another tramp there. No, uncle,’ I said, ‘it isn’t to be done. I’ve gone into it all carefully, and cut it as fine as I might, it will take fifty pounds for outfit and carriage to get to Klondike.’

“‘Fifty! Why, you said a hundred,’ he growled. ‘That’s coming down. Want the other fifty to play billiards and poker?’

“‘No, I don’t,’ I said, speaking as sharply as he did; ‘I want that fifty pounds to leave with poor old aunt. I can’t and won’t go and leave her penniless.’”

“Ah!” sighed the listener—almost groaned.

“Well, wouldn’t you have done the same?”

“Yes, yes. Go on—go on.”

“There isn’t much more to tell. I’m pretty close to the end. What do you think the old boy said?”

“I know—I know,” came back in a whisper.

“That you don’t,” cried the narrator, who, in spite of their horrible position, burst out into a ringing laugh. “He just said ‘Bah!’ and came at me as if he were going to bundle me out of the door, for he clapped his hands on my shoulders and shook me fiercely. Then he banged me down into a chair, and went to one of those old, round-fronted secretary desks, rolled up the top with a rush, took a cheque-book out of a little drawer, dashed off a cheque, signed and blotted it, and thrust it into my hand.

“‘There, it’s open,’ he said. ‘You can get it cashed at the bank, and send your aunt the fifty as soon as you’re gone. Be off at once, and don’t say a word to a soul. Here; give me back that cheque.’

“I gave it back to him.

“‘Now, swear you won’t tell a soul I lent you that money, nor that you are going off!’

“‘I give you my word of honour, uncle.’

“‘That’ll do,’ he said. ‘Catch hold, and be off. It’s a loan, mind. You bring back a couple of sacks full of nuggets, and pay me again.’

“‘I will, uncle,’ I said, ‘if I live.’

“‘If you live!’ he said, staring at me. ‘Of course you’ll live. I’m seventy, and not near done. You’re not a score. Be off.’

“And I came away and never said a word.”

“But you sent the fifty pounds to your poor old aunt?”

“Why, of course I did; but I shall never pay old ‘Hard Nut with the Sweet Kernel’ his money back. God bless him, though, and I hope he’ll know the reason why before he dies.”

“God bless him! yes,” said the listener, in a deep, low voice that sounded very strange, and as if the speaker could hardly trust himself to speak.

Then they lay together in the darkness and silence for a time, till Abel Wray made an effort and said in his harsh, husky voice:

“There, that’s all. Makes a fellow feel soft. Think it’s midnight yet?”

“No, no,” was whispered.

“I’ll strike a match and see.”

“No. We want every mouthful of air to breathe, or I should have struck one long ago.”

“Of course. I never thought of it once. Sleepy?”

“No.”

“Then fair play. Tell me your story now.”

“There is no need. But tell me this; am I awake? Have you told me all this, or have I dreamed it?”

“I’ve told you it all, of course.”

“Am I sane, or wandering in my head? It can’t be true. I must be mad.”

“Then I am, too. Bah! as Uncle Morgan said. Come, play fair; tell me how you came here?”

“The same way as you did, and to get gold.”

“Well, so I supposed. There, just as you like. I will not press you to tell me.”

“I tell you there is no need. For your story is mine. We thought as brothers with one brain; we made the same plan; we travelled with the same means; we supplied the dear old aunt and mother from the same true-hearted source. Bel, old lad, don’t you know me? It is I, Dal, and we meet like this!”

“Great heaven!” gasped Abel, in his low, husky whisper. “It has turned his brain. Impossible! Yes, that is it; the air is turning hot and strange at last, and this has driven me mad. It is all a wandering dream.”

Chapter Seven.

Fevered dreams.

“It is no wandering dream, Bel. I tell you I seem to have been inspired to do exactly the same as you did, and I went to Uncle Morgan, who treated me just as he treated you.”

“Yes, a dream—off my head,” said Abel Wray, in his harsh whisper.

“No, no, old fellow,” cried Dallas; “it is all true. Uncle was never so strange to me before. It was because you had been to him first. It is wonderful. Your voice is so changed I did not know it, and in the darkness I never saw your face.”

“Yes—delirious,” croaked Abel. “They say it is so before death.”

“Nonsense, nonsense, lad! I came back just in time to save you, and now we have been saved, too, from a horrible death. After a bit we shall be stronger, and shall be able to see which way to begin tunnelling our way out to life again. Cheer up; we have got through the worst, and as soon as we are free we’ll join hands and work together, so that we can show them at home that we have not come out in vain. How are you now?”

A low rumbling utterance was the reply, and Dallas leaned towards him, feeling startled.

“Don’t you hear me?” he cried. “Why don’t you answer?”

“Dear old Dal—to begin dreaming of him now,” came in a low muttering.

“No, no; I tell you that it is all true.”

“All right, uncle,” croaked Abel. “Not an hour longer than it takes to scrape together enough. Ha, ha, ha! and I thought you so hard and brutal to me. Eh? But you’re not. It was a dreadful take in. I say!”

“Yes, yes, old fellow. What?”

“Don’t say a word to dear old Dal. Let him stop and take care of aunt, and let them think I’ve shuffled out of the trouble. I’ll show them when I come back.”

“Bel, old fellow,” cried Dallas, seizing his cousin’s hand, “what is it? Don’t talk in that wild way.”

“That’s right, uncle,” croaked Abel. “We two used to laugh about you and call you the Hard Nut. So you are; but there’s the sweet white kernel inside, and I swear I’ll never lie down to sleep again without saying a word first for you. I say, one word,” cried the poor fellow, grasping his cousin’s hand hard: “you’ll do something for old Dal, uncle? I’ll pay you again. I don’t want to see him roughing it as I shall out there for the gold—yes, for the gold—the rich red gold. Ah, that’s cool and nice.”

For in his horror and alarm Dallas had laid a hand upon his cousin’s temples, to find them burning: but the poor fellow yielded to the gentle pressure, and slowly subsided on to the rough couch they had made, and there he lay muttering for a time, but starting at intervals to cough, as if his injured throat troubled him with a choking sensation, till his ravings grew less frequent, and he sank into a deep sleep.

“This is worse than all!” groaned Dallas. “Had I not enough to bear? His head is as if it were on fire. Fever—fever from his injury and the shock of all he has gone through. I thought he was talking wildly towards the last.”

As he spoke he was conscious of a sharp throbbing pang in his shoulder, and he laid a hand upon the place that he had forgotten; while now he woke to the fact that when he tried to think what it would be best to do for his cousin, the effort was painful, and the sensation came back that all this must be a feverish dream.

He clapped his hands to his face. It and his brow were burning hot, and he knew that he was growing confused; so much so that he rose to his knees, then to his feet, and took a step or two, to stand wondering, for his senses left him for a moment or two, and then a strange thing befell him. A black veil seemed to have fallen in front of his eyes, and he was lost, utterly lost, and he had not the least idea where he was or what had been taking place during the past twenty-four hours.

He stretched out his hands and touched the compressed snow, which was dripping with moisture; but that gave him no clue, for his mind seemed to be a perfect blank, and with a horrible feeling of despair he leaned forward to try and escape from the black darkness, when his burning brow came in contact with the icy wall of his prison, and it was like an electric shock.

His position came back in a flash. Self was forgotten, and he sank upon his knees to feel for his cousin, horror-stricken now by the great dread that the poor fellow might die with him by his side quite unable to help.

He forgot that but a short time back he was advocating a brave meeting of their fate. For since he had awakened to the fact that his boyhood’s companion was with him, hope had arisen, and with it the determination to wait patiently till morning and then fight their way back to the light. Now all seemed over. Abel was terribly injured, fever had supervened, and he would die for want of help; while he, who would freely have given his life that Abel might live, was utterly helpless, and there was that terrible sensation of being lost coming on again.

He pressed his head against the snow, but there was no invigorating sense of revival again—nothing but a curious, worrying feeling. Then he was conscious for a few moments that Abel was muttering loudly, but the injury to his shoulder was graver than he had imagined, and the feverish symptoms which follow a wound were increasing, so that before long he too had sunk into a nightmare-like sleep, conscious of nothing but the strange, bewildering images which haunted his distempered brain; and these were divided between his vain efforts to flee from some terrible danger, and to drag the heavily laden hand-sledge between two ice-covered rocks too close together to allow it to pass.

Chapter Eight.

The fight for life.

“Yes! Yes! What is it?” Somebody had spoken in the black darkness, but it was some minutes before Dallas Adams could realise the fact that the words came from his own lips.

Then he heard a faint whisper from somewhere close by, and he was this time wide awake, and knew that he was answering that whisper.

“Where am I? What place is this?”

The question had come to him in his sleep, and for a few moments, so familiar were the sounds, he felt that he must have the tubes of a phonograph to his ears, and he listening to the thin, weird, wiry tones of his cousin’s voice.

Then, like a flash, all came back, and he knew not only that he had been asleep, but everything that had happened some time before.

“Bel, old lad,” he said huskily, and he winced with pain as he tried to stretch out his left hand.

“Ah!” came again in the faint whisper, “That you, Dal?”

“Yes, yes. How are you now?”

“Then it isn’t all a delirious dream?”

“No, no; we have been brought together almost miraculously.”

“Thank God—thank God!” came feebly. “I thought I had been off my head. Have I been asleep?”

“Yes, and I fell asleep too. My wound made me feverish, and we must have been lying here ever so long in the dark.”

“Your wound, Dal?”

“Yes; I had almost forgotten it in what we had to go through, but one of the scoundrels shot me. It is only a scratch, but my arm seems set fast.”

“Ah! Do you think they were buried alive too?” came in an eager whisper.

“Who can say, old fellow? But never mind that. How do you feel? Think you can help me?”

“Tie up your wound?”

“No, no. Help me try and dig our way out.”

“I think so. My head feels a bit light, but it’s my throat that is bad—all swollen up so that I can only whisper.”

“Never mind your throat so long as you can use your arms.”

“Think we can dig our way out?”

Dallas uttered a little laugh.

“Why not?” he said. “There is a pick and shovel on my sledge.”

“Ah, yes, and on mine too.”

“We were out of heart last night,” continued Dallas, encouragingly, “and in the scare thought we were done for. But we can breathe; we shall not suffer for want of food; the melted snow will give us drink; and once we can determine which way to dig, what is to prevent our finding our way to daylight again?”

“Our position,” said Abel, in his faint whisper. “Where are we to put the snow we dig out?”

Dallas was silent for a few moments.

“Yes,” he said at last; “that will be a difficulty, for we must not fill up this place. But never mind that for the present. We must eat and drink now, for we shall want all our strength. Pressed snow is almost like ice. Ah, here is the sledge—mine or yours. My head is too thick to tell which. Bel, lad, we are going to dig our way out, if it takes us a month.”

“Yes,” came rather more strongly; and the next minute Dallas Adams was feeling about the sledge for the tin which held the traveller’s food.

It was hard work fumbling there in the dark, for parts of the sledge were pressed and wedged down by snow that was nearly as hard as ice; but others were looser, and by degrees he managed to get part of the tin free, when he started, for something touched his arm.

“Can I help you, Dal?”

“How you made me jump, lad! I don’t know. Feel strong enough?”

“I think so; but I want to work. It’s horrible lying there fancying the top of this hole is going to crumble down every time you move some of the snow.”

“Lay hold here, then, and let’s try and drag this tin out.”

They took hold of it as well as their cramped position would allow, and tugged and tugged, feeling the tin case bend and grow more and more out of shape; but it would not come.

“No good,” said Dallas. “I’ll cut through the tin with my knife.”

“But it’s looser now. Let’s have one more try.”

“Very well.—Got hold?—Now then, both together.”

They gave a sudden jerk, and fell backward with the once square tin case upon them, lying still and horrified, for there was a dull creaking and crushing noise as if the snow was being pressed down to fill up the vacancy they had made, and then crick, crack, sharply; there was the sound of breaking, as portions of the sledge gave way from the weight above.

Abel caught his cousin’s hand to squeeze it hard, fully expecting that their last moments had come; but after a minute’s agony the sounds ceased, and the prisoners breathed more freely.

“It’s all right, Bel,” said Dallas; “but it did sound rather creepy.”

“Hah!” ejaculated Abel. “I thought—”

“Yes, so did I, old fellow; but it’s a mistake to think at a time like this. We only frighten ourselves. Now then, let’s see what we’ve got.”

“See?” said Abel bitterly.

“Yes, with the tips of our fingers. It’s all right, I tell you; rats and mice and rabbits don’t make a fuss about being in burrows.”

“They’re used to it, Dal; we’re not.”

“Then let’s get used to it, lad. I say, suppose we were getting gold here, instead of a biscuit-tin; we shouldn’t make a fuss about being buried. Why, it’s just what we should like.”

“I suppose so,” replied Abel.

“It’s what we shall have to do, perhaps, by-and-by. This is a sort of lesson, and it will make the rest easy.”

“If we get out.”

“Get out? Pish! We shall get out soon. The sun and the rain will thaw us out if we don’t dig a way. Hullo! The lid’s off the tin, and the biscuits are half of them in the snow. Never mind. Set to work and eat, while I pick up all I can find. I’m hungry. Peck away, lad, and think you’re a squirrel eating your winter store. I say, who would think one could be so warm and snug surrounded by snow?”

Abel made no reply, but tried to eat, as he heard the cracking and crunching going on at his side. It was hard work, though, and he went on slowly, for the effort to swallow was accompanied by a good deal of pain, and he ceased long before Dallas gave up.

“How are you getting on?” the latter said in an encouraging tone.

“Badly.”

“Yes, they are dry; but wait till we get our gold. We’ll have a banquet to make up for this. By Jove!”

“What is it?”

“I forgot about your throat. It hurts?”

“Horribly. But I can manage.”

Dallas said no more, but thought a great deal; and after placing the tin aside he turned to the sledge to try whether he could not get at the shovel bound to it somewhere, for the package was pressed all on one side by the snow.

After a long search he found one corner of the blade, and drawing his big sharp knife, he set to work chipping and digging with the point, with the result that in about an hour he dragged out the tool.

“Now,” he said, “we can get to work turn and turn. The thing is, where to begin, for I have not seen the slightest glimmer of light.”

“No; we must be buried very deep.”

“Say pretty deep. Which way shall we try?”

“Up by the rock, and slope upward where the air seems to come.”

“That’s right. Just what I thought. And, look here, Bel, there’s room for a couple of cartloads of snow or more about us here, and my plan is this: one will dig upward, and of course the snow will fall down of its own weight. As it comes down the other must keep filling that biscuit-tin and carrying it to the far end yonder and emptying it.”

“And bury the sledge and the food.”

“No: we can get a great deal disposed of before we come to that. Look here—I mean, feel here. We have plenty of room to stand up where we are. Well, that means that we can raise the floor. So long as we have room to lie down, that is all we want.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“After a while we must get out all the food we want and take it with us in the tunnel we make higher and higher as we go.”

“Yes, that sounds reasonable,” said Abel thoughtfully. “We shall be drawing the snow down and trampling it hard beneath our feet.”

“And, I believe, be making a bigger chamber about us as we work up towards the light.”

“Keeping close to the face of the rock, too,” said Abel, “will ensure our having one side of our sloping tunnel safe. That can never cave in.”

“Well done, engineer!” cried Dallas laughingly. “Here were we thinking last night of dying. Why, the very remembrance of the way in which animals burrow has quite cheered me up.”

“That and the thought that we may have to mine underground for our gold,” replied Abel. “Shall I begin?”

“No; you’re weak yet, and it will be easier to clear away my workings.”

Without another word the young man felt his way to the end of their little hole, tapped the rock with the shovel, and then stood perfectly still.

“What is it?” asked Abel.

“I was trying to make out where the air comes from, and I think I have hit it. I shall try and slope up here.”

Striking out with the shovel and trying to cut a square passage for his ascent, he worked away for the next hour, the snow yielding to his efforts much more freely than he had anticipated; and as he worked Abel tried hard to keep up with him, filling the tin, bearing it to the other end beyond the sledges, and piling up the snow, trampling down the loads as he went on.

Twice over he offered to take his cousin’s place; but Dallas worked on, hour after hour, till both were compelled to give up from utter exhaustion, and they lay down now in their greatly narrowed cave to eat.

This latter had its usual result, and almost simultaneously they fell asleep.

How long they had been plunged in deep slumber, naturally, they could not tell. Night and day were the same to them; and as Dallas said, from the hunger they felt they might have been hibernating in a torpid state for a week, for aught they knew.

They ate heartily of the biscuits, Abel’s throat being far less painful, and once more the dull sound of the shovel began in a hollow, muffled way.

A couple of hours must have passed, at the end of which time so much snow had accumulated at the foot of the sloping shaft that Dallas was compelled to descend and help his fellow-prisoner.

“This will not do,” he said. “We must get out some more provisions before we bury the sledges entirely.”

“There is enough biscuit to keep us alive for a couple of days,” replied Abel. “Let us chance getting out, and not stop to encumber ourselves with more provisions.”

“It is risky, but I fancy that I am getting nearer the air. Go up and try yourself.”

Abel went up the sloping tunnel to the top with ease, Dallas having clipped steps out of the ice, and after breathing hard for a few minutes the younger man came down.

“You must be getting nearer the top. I can breathe quite freely there.”

“Yes, and the snow is not so hard.”

“Chance it, then, and go on digging,” said Abel eagerly. “I will get the snow away. I can manage so much more easily if I may put it down anywhere. It gets trampled with my coming and going.”

Dallas crept up to his task once more and toiled away, till, utterly worn out, both made another meal and again slept.

Twice over this was repeated, and all idea of time was lost; still they worked on, cheered by the feeling that they must be nearing liberty. However, the plan arranged proved impossible in its entirety, the rock bulging out in a way which drove the miner to entirely alter the direction of his sap. But the snow hour after hour grew softer, and the difficulty of cutting less, till all at once, as Dallas struck with his spade, it went through into a cavity, and a rush of cool air came into the sloping tunnel.

“Heavenly!” cried the worker, breathing freely now. “I’ll slip down, Bel. You must come up and have a mouthful of this.”

He descended to the bottom, and Abel took the spade and went to his place.

“The shovel goes through quite easily here,” he said excitedly.

“Yes, and what is beyond?” shouted Dallas. “Can you see daylight?”

“No; all is black as ink. It must be a hole in the snow. We must get into it, for the air comes quite pure and fresh, and that means life and hope.”

In his excitement he struck out with the shovel twice, and had drawn it back to strike again, when there was a dull heavy crack, and he felt himself borne sidewise and carried along, with the snow rising up and covering his face.

The next minute, as he vainly strove to get higher, the movement ceased, and he felt himself locked in the embrace of the snow, while his breathing stopped.

Only for a moment, before the hardening crystal which surrounded his head dropped away, and a rush of pure air swept over him and seemed to bring back life.

Then the sliding movement entirely ceased, and he wildly shouted his cousin’s name.

His voice echoed from somewhere above, telling him that, though a prisoner, he was free down to the shoulders, though his arms were pinned.

But there was no other reply to the call, and he turned sick and faint with the knowledge that Dallas must be once more buried deep, and far below.

Around all was black darkness, and in his agony another desperate effort was made; but the snow had moulded itself around him nearly to the neck, and he could not stir a limb.

Chapter Nine.

Under pressure.

The fit of delirium which once more attacked Abel Wray was merciful, inasmuch as it darkened his intellect through the long hours of that terrible night, and he awoke at last with the level rays of the sun showing him his position in a hollow of a tremendous waste of snow, while fifty yards away the sides of the rocky valley towered up many hundred feet above his head.

But it was daylight, and instead of the ravine seeming a place of horror and darkness, the snow-covered mountains flashed gloriously in the bright sunshine, whose warm glow brought with it hope and determination, in spite of the terrible sense of imprisonment, and the inability to move from the icy bonds. The great suffering was not bodily, but mental, and not selfish, for the constantly recurring question was, how was it with Dallas?

But the sunshine was laden with hope. Dallas was shut in again, but he had the tools and provisions with him, and he would be toiling hard to tunnel a way out, if—

Yes, there was that terrible “if.” But Abel kept it back; for it was quite possible that he might still be getting a sufficient supply of air to keep him alive.

How to lend him help?

There was the face of the vast cliff some fifty yards away, and it was close up to it that they had been first buried, the fresh collapse, when the snow had fallen away and borne him with it, having taken him the above distance. It was probable, then, that Dallas would not be now very far below the glittering surface of the snow.

How to get at him?

Abel’s first thought was to free one arm. If he could do that he might possibly be able to get at his knife, dragging it from the sheath at his waist. Then the work would be comparatively easy, for he could dig away the partly consolidated snow in which he was cased, and throw it from him.

He set to, struggling hard, but without effect, for it seemed to him that he was only working with his will, his muscles refusing to help; and by degrees the full truth dawned upon him, that the absence of pain was due to the fact that his body was quite benumbed, and a horrible sensation of fear came over him, with the belief that all beneath the snow must be frozen, and that he could do absolutely nothing to save his life.

Even as he thought this the benumbed sensation seemed to be rising slowly towards his brain.

“In a short time all will be over,” he groaned aloud, “and poor Dal will be left there, buried, thinking I have escaped and have left him to his fate. Is there no way to escape from this icy prison?”

He wrenched his head round as far as he could, first on one side, and then on the other; but it was always the same—the narrow valley with its stupendous walls, no longer black and horrible with its unseen horrors in the darkness of the night, but a wondrous way to a city of towers and palaces gorgeous to behold. His eyes ached with the flashing beauties of the scene. It was not the golden Klondike of his dreams, but a land of silver, whose turrets and spires and minarets were jewelled with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds; whose shadows were of sapphire blue or darker amethyst; and whose rays flashed and mingled till he was fain to close his eyes and ask himself whether what he saw was part of some dazzling dream.

He looked again, to see that it was no vision, but a scene of beauty growing more and more intense as the sun rose higher. The darkness had fled to display these wonders; there was not a chasm or gully that was not enlightened—everywhere save within the sufferer’s darkened soul. There all was the blackness of despair.

But black despair cannot stay for long in the breast of youth. Hope began to chase it away, and inanimate though the body was, the brain grew more active, offering suggestion after suggestion as to how he might escape.

The sun was growing hotter minute by minute, and the reflections from the pure white ice almost painful. Already, too, its effects were becoming visible.

Just where the warm rays played on the edge of a gap whose lower portions were of an exquisite turquoise blue, tiny crystal-like drops were forming, and as Abel Wray gazed at them with straining eyes he saw two run together into one, which kept gradually increasing in size till it grew too heavy for its adhesion to last, and it fell out of sight.

Only a drop of water, but it was the end of May; the snows would be melting, and before long millions of such drops would have formed and run together to make trickling rivulets coursing along the snow; these would soon grow into rushing torrents, and the snow would fall away, and he would be free.

“What madness!” he groaned. “It will thaw rapidly till the sun is off, and then freeze once more, and perhaps another avalanche will come. Yes, I shall be thawed out some day, and some one may come along in the future and find my bones.”

He shuddered, for it was getting black within once more, and a delirious feeling of horror began to master him, bringing with it thoughts of what might come.

Bears would be torpid in their snow-covered lairs; but wolves!

He felt as if he could shriek aloud, and he had to set his teeth hard as his eyes rolled round and up and down the gorge in search of some wandering pack that would scent him out at once, and in imagination he went through the brain-paralysing horror of seeing them approach, with their red, hungry, glaring eyes, their foam-slavered lips and glistening teeth.

There they were, five, seven, nine of them, gliding over the snow a hundred yards away, their shadows cast by the sun upon the dazzling white surface, and he uttered a hoarse cry and his head sank sideways as he closed his eyes in the reaction.

No wolves, only the few magnified shapes of a covey of snow grouse, the ryper of the Scandinavian land, which, after running for a while, rose and passed over him with whirring wings, seeking the lower part of the valley, where the snow was swept away.

Abel drew a long, deep breath, and then set his teeth once more as he upbraided himself for his cowardice.

For was he not on the highway—the main track to the golden land; and was it not a certainty that before long other adventurers would pass that way?

What was that?

The prisoner listened, with every nerve on the strain, and it was repeated.

So great was the tension, that as soon as the sound came for the second time the listener uttered a wild shriek of joy. It was hardly a cry. He had struggled to free himself from his icy bonds to go to his cousin’s help, and awakened to the fact that he was helpless, and he had dared to despair, when all the time Dallas was alive and toiling hard to come and free him. The sensation of joy and delight was almost maddening, and he listened again.

There it was—a dull, low, indescribable sound which appealed to him all through, for he felt it more with his chest than with his ears. It was a kind of a jar which came through the snow, communicated from particle to particle, telegraphed to him by the worker below, and it told that Dallas was strong and well, and striving hard to get free.

How long would it take him to dig his way through? Not long, for he could not be so deep down now.

He waited, counting every stroke of the shovel, and a fresh joy thrilled the listener, for those light jars sent fresh hope in waves, telling him as they did that though he was so benumbed, his body must be full of sensation. It could not be deadened by the cold.

“Bah! I must naturally be a coward at heart,” the poor fellow said to himself. “Dal’s worth a dozen of me. I think of helping him? Pooh! it is always he who takes that rôle.”

But his mind went back again to the one thought—How long would it take Dallas to dig his way out in spite of his wound? Not so very long—the strokes of the shovel came so regularly. But what an escape for both!

“Not free yet, though,” muttered the prisoner. “That’s right, work away, Dal. Your muscles were always stronger than mine. Get out and we’ll reach the gold yet, and win the prize we came for.—I wonder whether he could hear me if I shouted!”

He bowed his head as far as he could, nearly touching the snow with his lips.

“Dal, ahoy! ahoy!” he shouted; and a few moments after came the answer, “Ahoy—ahoy–oy–oy!” from the icy rocks up the valley.

“Only the echoes,” muttered Abel, as the sounds died away.

Then he started, for the hail came again, loud and clear, “Ahoy! Ahoy—ahoy–oy–oy!” and then once more the echoes.

But the hail was from down the narrow valley, and these echoes were from above.

“Hurrah! Help coming!” cried Abel wildly. “Ahoy, there! Help!”

He wrenched his head round to utter the cry, and was conscious of a heavy pang in his injured throat. But what of that at such a time, when the cry was answered by another? “Ahoy! ahoy!” No deceiving echo, for in addition came, “Where are yer?” and that was echoed too.

Abel’s lips parted to reply, but a chill of despair shot through every nerve once more, and he uttered a bitter groan.

There they were—there could be no doubt of it. The three cowardly, treacherous ruffians had escaped, and he was calling them to his help. Not four hundred yards down the valley, plainly to be seen in the broad sunshine, all three of them, two dragging a heavily laden sledge, the other, the big-bearded ruffian, a short distance in front, in the act of putting his hands to his mouth to shout again:

“Where away, O?”

“Will they see me with just my head out like this? Yes, they are certain to, for they must come by here. Oh, Dal, Dal, old man, don’t dig now. For heaven’s sake, keep still: they’re coming to finish their horrid work.”

Chapter Ten.

A human fossil.

“You be blowed!” cried a bluff cheery voice. “Eckers be jiggered! Think I don’t know the difference between a hecker an’ a nail?”

“No.”

“Don’t I? I heered some one holloa, and as I don’t believe in ghosts, I say some one must be here. Ahoy! where are you, mate?”

The speaker turned from his two companions, who were dragging the sledge up the slope of the snow-fall, and then smote one thigh heavily with the palm of his great hand.

“I’m blest!” he shouted, as he ran a few steps and dropped on one knee by Abel’s head. “No, no; don’t give in now, my lad. Hold up, and we’ll soon have you out o’ this pickle. Here, out with shovels and pecks, lads. Here’s a director of the frozen meat company caught in his own trap. Specimen o’ Horsestralian mutton froze hard and all alive O. Here, mate, take a sup o’ this.”

The speaker unscrewed the top of a large flask, and held it to Abel’s lips, trickling a few drops between them as the head fell back and the poor fellow nearly swooned away.

“That’s your sort. Never mind its being strong. I’d put some snow in it, but you’ve had enough of that. Coming round, you are. What’s it been—a heavy ’lanche?”

“Yes, yes,” gasped Abel; “but never mind me.”

“What! Want to be cut out carefully as a curiosity—fly-in-amber sort of a fellow?”

“No, no—my cousin! Buried alive, man. Hark! you can hear him digging underground.” The great sturdy fellow, who bore some resemblance to ruddy-haired Beardy, sufficient in the distance and under the circumstances of his excitement to warrant Abel’s misapprehension, stared at the snow prisoner for a few moments as if he believed him to be insane.

“He’s off his ’ead, mates, with fright,” he said in a low voice to his companions, who were freeing the shovels; but Abel heard him.

“No, no,” he cried wildly. “I know what I am saying. Listen.”

The great, frank-looking fellow laid his ear to the snow, and leaped up again.

“He’s right,” he roared excitedly. “There’s some one below—how many were with you, my lad?”

“Only my cousin—we were buried together—but don’t talk—dig, dig!”

“Yes, both of you, slip into it. Just here,” cried the big man, “while I get the pick and fetch this one out.”

“No, no, not there,” cried Abel frantically. “Dig yonder, there by the rock wall.”

“What, right over yonder? Sound’s here.”

“Go and listen there,” cried Abel.

“Can you hold out?”

“Yes, yes; hours now. Save my cousin; for heaven’s sake, quick!”

One of the men had gone quickly to the rocky wall, knelt down and listened, and shouted back.

“He’s right,” cried this latter. “You can hear some one moleing away quite plain.”

“Dig, dig!” shouted Abel, and two of the

new-comers began at once, while the leader of the party went to their sledge and dragged a sharp-pointed miner’s pick from where it was lashed on.

“No, no,” cried Abel imploringly, as the man returned to his side; “save him.”

“You keep quiet, my lad. I’m a-going to save you.”

“But I can breathe,” cried Abel.

“So can he, or he couldn’t go on working. Two heavy chaps is quite enough to be tramping over his head. Don’t want my sixteen stone to tread it hard. Have a drop more o’ this ’fore I begin?”

“No, no! It is burning my mouth still.”

“Good job too: put some life into you, just when you looked as if you was going to bye-bye for good. Now then, don’t you be skeart. I know how to use a pick; been used to it in the Corn’ll tin-mines. I could hit anywhere to half a shadow round you without taking the skin off. I’ll soon have you out.”

He began at once, driving the pick into the compressed snow; but after the first half-dozen strokes, seeing how the fragments flew, he took off his broad-brimmed felt hat and laid it against Abel’s head as a screen. Then commencing again he made the chips fly in showers which glittered in the sunshine, as he walked backward, cutting a narrow trench with the sharp-pointed implement, taking the prisoner’s head as a centre and keeping about thirty inches distant, and so on, round and round till the channel he cut was as deep as the arm of the pick, and quite clear.

“Feel bad?” he said, pausing for a few moments.

“No, no,” cried Abel. “How are they getting on?”

“Better’n me. If we don’t look sharp your mate—what did you say he was—cousin?—’ll be out first.”

“I hope so,” sighed Abel.

“Now then, shut your eyes, my son,” cried the miner. “I’m going to cut from you now. Lean your head away as much as you can. I’ve cut the tire and felloes of the wheel; your head’s the nave; now I’m going to cut the spokes.”

Click, click, click, went the pick.

“Don’t you flinch, my son,” cried the man. “I won’t hit you.”

Abel had winced several times over, for the bright steel tool had whizzed by him dangerously close; but he grew more confident now, and, as much as he could for the sheltering hat, he watched the wonderful progress made by his rescuer, who at the end of a few minutes had deeply cut two more channels after the fashion of the spokes running from the centre to the periphery of the imaginary wheel.

After this, a few well-directed blows brought out the intervening snow in great pieces, and upon these being cleared out another clever blow broke the gathered snow right up to the young man’s left arm, leaving seven or eight inches below the shoulder clear.

“That’s your sort, my son,” cried the miner cheerily, chatting away, but keeping the pick flying the while. “The best way to have got you out would have been with a tamping iron, making a nice hole, dropping in a dynamite cartridge, and popping it off. That would have sent this stuff flying, only it might have blowed you all to bits, which wouldn’t have been pleasant. This is the safest way. How are you gettin’ on, mates?”

“All right. He’s ’live enough, Bob.”

“Work away, then. Look here, my son, I did think of spoking you all round, but I’m beginning to think it’ll be better to keep on at you this side, and then take you out of your mould sidewise like. There won’t be so much cutting to do, and you’ll have one side clear sooner. What do you say?”

“I want you to go and help your companions,” replied Abel faintly.

“Then I’m sorry I can’t oblige you,” cried the man cheerily. “Look at that now! This fresh stuff hasn’t had time to get very hard. After a few thawings and freezings it would be like clear solid ice. It’s pretty firm, but—there’s another. Soon let daylight down by your ribs. I want to get that hand and arm clear first so as you can hold the hat to shade your face.”

And all the time he chatted away, coolly enough, the pick was wielded so dexterously, every blow being given to such purpose, that he cut out large pieces of the compressed snow and hooked them out of the rapidly growing hole.

It was the work of a man who had toiled for years amongst the granite deep down in the bowels of the earth, and experience had taught him the value of striking so as to save labour; but all the same the task was a long one, and it grew more difficult the deeper down he went.

“’Bliged to make the hole bigger, my son,” he said; “but you hold up; I sha’n’t be long now. I say, how deep down do you go? Are you a six-footer?”

“No, I’m only about five feet eight,” said Abel, whose face looked terribly pained and drawn.

“Aren’t you now?” said the man coolly. “I should ha’ thought by the look of your head and chest that you were taller. Been a longer job with me. I’m over six foot three, and good measure. There, now that arm’s clear, aren’t it? Can you lift it out?”

Abel shook his head sadly.

“There is no use in it,” he said faintly.

“Might ha’ knowed it. Bit numb like with the cold. But you keep a good heart, and I’ll have you out. It’s only a bit o’ work, and no fear of caving in on us. Just child’s play like. There’s one arm clear, and a bit of your side, and the rest’ll soon follow.”

The man paused in the act of getting the the top off the spirit-flask, and shouted to his companions, “Hoi! Here, quick, lads, and help me here. My one’s going out.”

For a ghastly look crossed Abel’s face, his eyes grew fixed, as they half-closed, and his head fell over on one side.

Chapter Eleven.

A coward blow.

The two men who had been fighting hard to reach Dallas, the sound of whose strokes seemed nearer than ever, rushed to their companion, who had begun chafing the buried man’s face and temples, with the result that Abel raised his head again and looked wildly round.

“I thought he was a goner, my sons,” whispered the big fellow. “Go on back to your chap; I’ll manage here.”

The two men, who were excited by their task, rushed back again, and their companion moistened Abel’s lips.

The man began to work his pick again with wonderful rapidity, enlarging the hole, and every now and then giving a furtive glance at the prisoner and another in the direction where his companions were tearing out the icy snow.

The great drops stood on the big Cornishman’s face as he toiled away, enlarging the hole down beside Abel Wray, and all the time he kept up a cheery rattle of talk about how useful a tool a pick was, and how the lad he was helping—and whom he kept on calling “my son”—ought to have brought one of the same kind for the gold working to come; but the look in his big grey eyes looked darker and more sombre as he saw a grey aspect darkening the countenance of the prisoner—the air he had seen before in the faces of men whom he had helped to rescue after a fall of roof in one of the home mines.

“He’ll be a goner before I get him out if I don’t mind,” he said to himself, and the pick rattled, and the icy snow flashed as he struck here and there, only ceasing now and then to stoop and throw out some big lump which he had detached.

“Better fun this, my son,” he said with a laugh, “if all this was rich ore to be powdered up. Fancy, you know—gold a hundredweight to the ton. Rather different to our quartz rock at home, with just a sprinkle of tin that don’t pay the labour.

“Hah!” he cried at last, from where he stood in the well-like shaft he had cut, and threw down his pick on the snow. “Now you ought to come.”

He rose, took hold of Abel as he spoke, and found that his calculations were right, for very little effort was required to draw him forward from out of the snowy mould in which he was belted; and the next minute the poor fellow lay insensible upon the snow, with his rescuer kneeling by him, once more trickling spirit between the blue lips.

“Can’t swallow,” muttered the man, and he screwed up the flask, and set to work rubbing his patient vigorously, regardless of what was going on beneath the rocky wall, till there was a loud cheer, and his two companions came towards him, each holding by and shaking hands heartily with Dallas Adams. For they had mined down to where they could meet him as he toiled upward to escape; and the first words of Dallas, when he was drawn out hot and exhausted, were a question about his cousin.

The pair set at liberty joined in now in the endeavour to resuscitate the poor fellow lying on the snow. Their sledge was unpacked, double blankets laid down, and the sufferer lifted upon them, friction liberally applied to the limbs, and at last they had the satisfaction of seeing him unclose his eyes, to stare blindly for a time. Then consciousness returned, there was a look of joy flashing out, and he uttered the words hoarsely:

“Dal! Saved!”

“Yes, yes, all right, old lad, thanks to these true fellows here. How are you?”

“Arms, hands, and legs burning and throbbing horribly. I can hardly bear the pain.”

The big Cornishman laughed.

“Only the hot-ache, my son,” he said merrily. “That’s a splendid sign. You’re not frost-bitten.”

“God bless you for all you have done,” cried Abel, catching at the big fellow’s hand. “I couldn’t hold out any longer.”

“Of course you couldn’t. Why, your pluck was splendid.”

“Thank him, Dal,” cried Abel. “He has saved my life.”

“Yah! Fudge! Gammon! Stuff! We don’t want no thanking. You two lads would have done the same. We don’t want to be preached at. Tommy Bruff, my son, what do you say to a fire, setting the billy to boil, and a bit o’ brax’uss?”

“Same as you do, laddie. Cup o’ tea’ll be about the right thing for these two.”

There was plenty of scrub pine at hand, swept down by the snow-fall, and sticking out here and there. Axes were got to work, and soon after the two sufferers were seated, covered with fur-lined coats, and revelling in the glow of the fire, over which a big tin was steaming, while their new friends were busy bringing out cake, bread, tea, and bacon from their store in the partly unpacked sledge.

The big, bearded Cornishman had started a black pipe, and while his companions replenished the fire and prepared for the meal, he sat on a doubled-up piece of tarpaulin, and wiped, dried, and polished picks, shovels, and axes ready for repacking. Every now and then he paused to smile a big, happy, innocent-looking smile at the two who had been rescued, just as if he thoroughly enjoyed what had been done, and then, suddenly dropping the axe he was finishing, caught up a little measure of dry tea, and shouting, “There, she boils!” tossed it into the tin over the fire, lifted it off, and set it aside, and then laid the freshly polished tools on the sledge.

Soon after, refreshed by the tins of hot tea, the rescued pair were able to give an account of their adventures, the new-comers listening eagerly and making their comments.

“Ho!” said the big Cornishman, frowning. “I expected we should come across some rough ’uns, but I didn’t think it was going to be so bad as that. Scared, mates?”

“No,” said one of his companions; “not yet.”

“Nor yet me,” said the other.

“Nor me neither,” said the big fellow. “If it’s going to be peace and work, man and man, so much the better; but if it’s war over the gold, we shall have to fight. What’s mine is mine, or ourn; and it’ll go awkward for them as meddles with me. I’m a nasty-tempered dog if any one tries to take my bone away; aren’t I, my sons?”

The two men addressed bent their heads back and burst into a roar of laughter.

“Hark at him,” said the man spoken to as Tommy. “Don’t you believe him, my lads. He’s a great big soft-roed pilchard; that’s what he is. Eh, Dick Humphreys?”

“Yes; like a great big gal,” assented the other.

“Oh, am I?” said the big fellow. “You don’t know, my sons. But I say, though,” he continued, tapping the snow with his knuckles, “then for aught we know them three blacks is buried alive just under where we’re sitting?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“’Fraid? What are you ’fraid on?”

“It is a horrible death,” said Abel, with a shudder.

“Well, yes, I suppose it is,” said the Cornishman thoughtfully. “I say, we ought to get digging to find ’em, oughtn’t we?”

“We are not sure they are there,” said Dallas.

“Of course you are not,” continued the miner, “and I don’t believe they are. You see, your mate here took us for ’em. I believe Natur’ made a mistake and buried you two instead of them. If they are down below I haven’t heard no signs of them, and they must be dead. Why, it would take us a couple of years to clear all this stuff away, and we mightn’t find ’em then. I say, though, what about your tackle?”

“Our sledges? They’re buried deep down here.”

“We shall have to get them out, then. You two won’t be able to get along without your traps.”

Soon after an inspection of the position was made; one of the men descended into the hole they had dug close up to the rock wall, and he returned to give his opinion that by devoting a day to the task the shaft could be so enlarged that they could drive a branch down straight to the spot, and save the stores and tools, even if they could not get the sledges out whole.

It took two days, though, during which no fresh comers appeared, the report of the snow-fall having stopped further progress. At the end of the above time, pretty well everything was saved by the help of the miner and his companions, who gallantly stood by them.

“Oh, we’ve got plenty of time,” said their leader, “and if these sort o’ games are going to be played, it strikes me that you two gents would be stronger if you made a sort o’ co. along of us. Don’t if you don’t care to. What do you say to trying how it worked for a bit?”

This was gladly acceded to, and on the third day a move was made as far as the spot where the grim discovery had been made.

Here the party halted, and the corpse of the unfortunate was reverently covered by a cairn of stones, along with his faithful dog; after which a discussion arose as to what should be done with the poor fellow’s implements and stores.

“Pity to leave ’em here,” said one of the men. “Only spoil. Hadn’t we better share ’em out.”

“Perhaps so,” said Dallas. “You three can.”

“Oh, but there’s five on us, sir.”

“No, only three.”

“What do you say, Bob?” said the first speaker.

“I says bring the poor chap’s sled along with us. If we’re hard pushed we can use what’s there; if we’re not we sha’n’t want it; and—well, I don’t kind o’ feel as if I should like any one to nobble my things like that. Same time, I says it is no use to leave ’em to spoil.”

The next morning, with the young men little the worse for their adventure, they started onward, and for a couple of days made pretty good way, leaving the snow behind in their downward progress, till all further advance was stopped by the change for which they had been prepared before starting. The watershed had been crossed, and they had reached the head waters of one of the tributaries of the vast Yukon River of the three thousand miles flow.

The spot they had reached was a long, narrow lake, surrounded at the upper end by fir-woods. The rest of the route was to be by water, and here a suitable raft had to be made.

“Fine chance for a chap to set up boatbuilding,” said Big Bob. “What do you say? I believe we should make more money over the job than by going to dig it out.”

“Let’s try the gold-digging first,” said Dallas; and with a cheer the men set to work at the trees selected, the axes ringing and the pine-chips flying in the bright sunshine till trunk after trunk fell with a crash, to be lopped and trimmed and dragged down to the water’s edge ready for rough notching out to form the framework of such a raft as would easily bear the adventurers, their sledges and stores, down the lake and through the torrents and rapids of the river in its wild and turbulent course.

The sledges were drawn up together in a triangle to form a shelter to the fire they had lit for cooking, for the wind came down sharply from the mountains. Rifles and pistols lay with the sledges, for the little party of five had stripped to their work, so that, save for the axes they used, they were unarmed.

But no thought of danger occurred to any one present; that was postponed in imagination till they had finished the raft and embarked for a twenty-mile sail down to where the river, which entered as a shallow mountain torrent, rushed out, wonderfully augmented, to tear northward in a series of wild rapids, which would need all the strength and courage of the travellers to navigate them in safety.

A hearty laugh was ringing out, for the big Cornishman had rather boastingly announced that he could carry one of the fallen trees easily to the lake, put it to the proof, slipped, and gone head first into the water after the tree, when a sharp crack rang out from near at hand.

Abel uttered a loud cry, clapped his hands to his head, and fell backward.

For a moment or two the men stood as if paralysed, gazing at the fallen youth. Then Dallas looked sharply round, caught sight of a thin film of smoke curling up from the edge of the forest, and with a cry of rage ran toward the sledges, thrusting the handle of his axe through his belt, caught up his revolver from where it lay, and dashed towards the spot whence the firing must have come.

Chapter Twelve.

Wholesale robbery.

“Keep together—keep together!” shouted the big Cornishman; but no one heeded, and he followed their example of seizing the first weapon he could reach and following.

The pursuit was short, for it seemed madness to follow in amongst the dense pines which formed the forest, placing themselves at the mercy of an enemy who could bring them down as they struggled through the dense thicket of fallen trees and tangled branches: so, after a few rallying cries, they made their way back to the open space by the lake, to find Abel sitting up and resting his head upon his hand.

“Wounded!” panted Dallas.

“Yes—no! I can’t tell! Look!” said the injured man huskily.

A few minutes’ examination showed how narrow had been his escape, a bullet having struck the side of the poor fellow’s head, just abrading the scalp. Half an inch lower must have meant death.

“Injuns,” said the Cornishman laconically.

“No, no,” cried Dallas, with a fierce look round; “it must be our enemies.”

“Not they, my lad; they’re fast asleep under the snow, you may take your oath. It’s Injuns, by the way they hid themselves. Now, then, can you keep watch—sentry go?” he said, addressing Abel.

“Yes, it was only a graze from the bullet; I am better now.”

“Then you take a loaded rifle and keep watch while we go on knocking the raft together.”

“Yes,” cried Dallas, “the sooner we get away from here the better.”

All set to work with feverish energy at the raft-making. Enough wood was cut, and by clever notching together, the use of spikes, and a further strengthening with rope, the framework rapidly progressed, their intention being to launch, load up, and set off that evening, so as to get to a safer spot.

Abel carefully kept his watch, scanning the dark edge of the forest; but there was no further interruption, and the men worked away, with only a brief pause for refreshment.

Then the sun dipped below the pines, and as darkness approached Dallas let his axe rest on the young pine he had been trimming, and turned to his companions, with a look of despair in his eyes.

“Yes,” said the Cornishman good-humouredly, “we cut out more stuff than we can finish to-night, my son. It’s a bigger job than I thought. We shall have to knock off now. What’s to be done about the fire?”

It was risky work, but the watch was well kept while water was boiled and bacon fried. Then a hasty meal was made, and as the darkness fell the fire was quenched by throwing over it a bucket or two of water.

It was hard enough to do this, for though the ground was clear about them, snow lay on every rocky hill, and the night promised to be bitterly cold. But the exposure to an enemy would have been too great; so after selecting one of the huge spruces whose boughs hung down to the ground for a shelter, and dragging the sledges close in, the question arose of continuing the watch.

“Tchah! It’s as dark as pitch,” said the Cornishman. “Nobody could see. Let the enemy think we’re watching. They won’t come. We must chance it. Wrap up well, and have a good night’s rest.”

This advice was taken, and soon after all were sleeping the sleep of exhaustion, and awoke at daylight without a fresh alarm.

The previous day’s tactics were resumed, and the toil over the raft went on, but there was still so much to do in the way of bracing and strengthening the rough craft so that it might withstand the fierce currents and concussions they were to expect at the lower part of the lake where the rapids began, that the hours glided by till late in the afternoon, and still the task was not done.

“Who could have thought it would take so long?” said Dallas at last. “You see, we have everything to cut.”

“No one, my son,” said their big friend, smiling; “but I bet we shouldn’t have got the job done for us in double the time.”

“It would be madness to start to-night.”

“Stark. Couldn’t get loaded up before dark, and then it’ll be like pitch. Let’s cut some poles for punting and a mast to make a bit of sail if we like, and then I think we may say that we have got our job well done, ready for loading up and starting in the morning.”

“Yes,” said Abel, who seemed little the worse for his last mishap; “it was better to make a good job of the raft.”

“And that we’ve done,” said the Cornishman.

The poles were cut, trimmed, and laid upon the deck, which had been finished after launching; and now, as they examined their work, all were satisfied that it could not have been done better in the time, for as it lay in the clear water, swinging by a rope secured to a pine-stump, all felt that it would easily bear the party, their sledges and stores; and the pity seemed to be that it could not be used for the whole of their journey.

“Who knows? Perhaps it may.”

There was an hour’s daylight yet, and this was utilised down on the sandy shore of the stream which ran into the lake hard by.

It was the first trial, and no little interest was felt as every man waded into the icy cold water, pannikin in hand, to scoop the sand aside and then get a tinful from as deep down as they could.

This was washed and watched beneath the water, the stones thrown out, and washed again, till only a little sand remained, and this was carefully examined.

“Gold!” cried Dallas excitedly; and this was eagerly responded to by the others, for in every pan there was some of the precious metal, but such tiny grains that it was decided that a halt would be useless there.

“Farther on,” said Dallas excitedly; “this is only the edge of the golden land, but here is proof that we are going right.”

“Yes,” said the big Cornishman; “but I don’t rest till we can shovel it up like gravel from a pit.”

Darkness put an end to their search, and once more the fire was quenched, and in silence they sought the shelter of the great tree, placed their arms ready, rolled themselves in their blankets, and were soon asleep.

It seemed as if they had only just lain down when one of the men shouted, “Morning!”

“Hooray!” cried the big Cornishman. “Who’s going to face the cold, and have a dip in the lake?”

Every one but Abel, who hung back.

“Don’t you feel well enough to come?” said Dallas anxiously.

“Yes, but some one ought to light the fire and set the billy to boil.”

“Here! Hi! All of you,” yelled the big Cornishman, who had gone on. “Quick!”

All ran at the alarm, and then stood aghast.

“The rope must have come undone,” cried Dallas.

“Don’t look like it, my son. It’s left part of itself behind.”

“Broken—snapped?” cried Abel.

“Sawed through with a knife,” said one of the men.

“Injuns. Come in the night; lucky they didn’t use their knives to us,” growled the Cornishman fiercely, as he looked searchingly round.

“Look,” cried Dallas, excited; “these are not Indian traces;” and he pointed down at the sandy shore.

“Indian? No,” cried Abel, going down on his knees; “the marks of navigators’ boots, with nails;” and he looked wildly across and down the lake.

But the raft, their two days’ hard work, had gone.

Chapter Thirteen.

Making the best of it.

“You’re quite right, my son,” said the Cornishman coolly, after lighting his pipe and carefully examining the ground. “I’m not much of a hand at this kind of thing, but it looks plain enough. Here’s all our footmarks quite fresh, and here’s a lot more that look as if they were made last night.”

“Last night?” cried Dallas.

“Ay, that they do.”

“But those may be ours.”

“Nay; not one of us has got a hoof like that,” cried the Cornishman, pointing with the stem of his pipe. “I’ve got a tidy one of my own, but I aren’t pigeon-toed. Look at that one, too, and that. Yonder’s our marks, and, hullo! what’s that lying in the water?”

The others gazed in the indicated direction, and Dallas leaped into the shallow water, to stoop down and pick out a knife.

“Some one must have dropped this,” he cried.

“Unless one of us has lost his,” said the big fellow. “Any one own it?”

There was a chorus of negatives.

“Well, I’m sorry,” cried the Cornishman. “Poor chap! How savage he’ll be to find he has lost his toothpick. Look here,” he continued grimly, “if you all don’t mind, I’ll take care o’ this bit of steel. We may meet the chap as lost it, and I should like to give it him back.”

“Oh,” cried Dallas passionately, “how can you laugh and make a joke of such a misfortune as this?”

“What’s the good o’ crying about it, my son?” said the man, smiling. “There’s worse disasters at sea. Who says light a fire and have a good breakfast?”

“Breakfast!” cried Abel; “nonsense! We must go in pursuit at once.”

“And leave our traps for some one else to grab? Why, dear boy, we couldn’t get through the forest empty-handed.”

“No,” said Abel, gazing along the bank of the lake disconsolately.

“He’s right, Bel,” said Dallas, after shading his eyes and looking down the lake. “They’ve got right away.”

“Hang ’em, yes,” said the Cornishman, smiling merrily. “I say, I wish we hadn’t taken quite so much pains with that there raft. If we’d known we’d ha’ saved all those six-inch spikes we put in it.”

“The scoundrels, whoever they are!” cried Dallas. “It’s beyond bearing.”

“Nay, not quite, my son,” said their new friend good-humouredly, “because we’ve got to bear it. Cheer up. Might have been worse. You see, it was a fresh lot come along while we were asleep and out of sight. ‘Hullo!’ says one of ’em, ‘now I do call this kind; some un’s made us a raft all ready for taking to the water. Come along, mates,’ and they all comed.”

“I wish I’d heard them,” cried Dallas.

“Well, if you come to that, so do I, my sons. But there, we’ve got our tackle, and they haven’t taken all the wood, so we must make another.”

“Yes, and waste two more days,” cried Abel angrily.

“Well, we’re none of us old yet,” said the Cornishman good-humouredly; “and I don’t suppose those who have gone before will have got all the gold.”

“But it is so annoying to think that we lay snoring yonder and let whoever they were steal the raft,” said one of the men.

“So it is, my son,” cried his companion; “and I can see that you two are chock full o’ swear words. Tell you what: you two go in yonder among the trees and let ’em off, while we three light the fire and cook the rashers. It’ll ease your minds, and you’ll feel better. I say, what’s about the value of that there raft?”

“I wouldn’t have taken twenty pounds for my share of it,” cried Abel.

“Humph! Twenty,” said the Cornishman musingly. “Well, seeing it’s here, we’ll say twenty pound. There’s five of us, and that makes a hundred. All right, my sons; we shall come upon those chaps one of these days, and they’ll have to pay us about a pound and a harf o’ gold for our work; and if they don’t there’s going to be a fight. Now then, gentlemen, fire—breakfast—and then work. We shall be a bit more handy in making another. Wish we’d had a bit o’ paint.”

“Paint! What for?” cried Dallas and Abel in a breath.

“Only to have touched it up, and made it look pretty for ’em.”

“Never mind!” said Dallas, through his teeth. “We’ll make it to look pretty for them when we find them.”

“So we will, my son,” cried the Cornishman, and as he gathered chips and branches together he kept on indulging in a hearty laugh at the prospect of the encounter; and as the two young adventurers glanced at the man’s tremendous arms, they had sundry thoughts about what would happen to the thieves.

The Cornishman was right; they were much more handy over making the second raft, and worked so hard that by the end of the following day a new and stronger one was made and loaded ready for the next morning’s start.

But this time a watch was kept, one of the party sitting on board until half the night had passed, when he was relieved by another; and as the sun rose, breakfast was over, and they cast off the rope from the pine-stump which had formed the mooring-post.

The morning was glorious, and the sun lit up the snow-covered mountains, making the scene that of a veritable land of gold. A light breeze, too, was blowing in their favour, so that their clumsy craft was wafted down the lake, which here and there assumed the aspect of a wide river of the bluest and purest water, the keen, elastic air sending a thrill of health and strength through them, and it seemed as if the tales they had heard of the perils they were to encounter were merely bugbears, for nothing could have been pleasanter than their passage.

“Let’s see,” said Dallas, who was well provided with map and plan; “when we get to the bottom of this lake there are some narrows and rapids to pass along.”

“So we heard,” said the Cornishman. “Well, so much the better. We shall go the faster. I suppose they’re not Falls of Ni-agger-ray.—I say, can you gents swim?”

“Pretty well,” was the reply. “Can you?”

The big fellow scratched his head and screwed up his face into a queer smile.

“You ask my two mates,” he said.

“No, I asked you,” said Dallas.

“Not a stroke, my son. If we get capsized I shall trust to being six foot three and a half and walk out. I don’t s’pose it’ll be deeper than that. If it is, I dessay my mates’ll lend me a hand.”

“Then we mustn’t capsize,” said Abel.

“Well, it would be as well not,” said one of the other party drily, “on account of the flour and sugar and tea. I always said you ought to swim, Bob, old man.”

“So you did, mate,” said the big fellow, with a chuckle. “And as soon as it gets warm enough I’m going to learn.”

That night they reached the foot of the lake where the rocky walls closed in, forming a narrow ravine, through which the great body of water seemed to be emptying itself with a roar, the aspect of the place being dangerous enough to make the party pole to the shore at the first likely landing-place and camp for the night.

The evening was well upon them by the time they had their fire alight, and after a hearty meal their couch of pine-boughs proved very welcome.

“Sounds ominous, Dal,” said Abel. “I hope we shall get safely through in the morning.”

“We must,” was the reply. “Don’t think about it; we ought to be hardened enough to do anything now. How’s your head?”

“A bit achey sometimes. And your shoulder?”

There was no reply, for, utterly wearied out with poling the raft, Dallas was asleep, leaving only one of the party to watch the expiring embers of the fire, and listen to the rapids’ deep humming roar.

Abel did not keep awake, though, long. For after getting up to satisfy himself that the raft was safe, he lay down again, meaning to watch till the fire was quite out, though there was not the slightest danger of their being attacked. The only way an enemy could have approached was by water, and it was with a calm, restful sense of satisfaction that the young man stretched himself out on the soft boughs as he said to himself, “There isn’t a boat on the lake, and it would take any party two days to make a raft.”

Chapter Fourteen.

From the frying-pan into the wet fire.

“We could not have better weather, Bel,” said Dallas, as they finished the next morning’s breakfast. “Summer is coming.”

“Rather a snowy summer,” was the reply; “but never mind the cold: let’s try wherever we halt to see if there is any gold; those fellows are getting out their tins.”

A few minutes later all were gold-washing on the shore, their Cornish friend having cast loose a shovel, and given every person a charge of sand and stones from one of the shallows, taking his shovelfuls from places a dozen yards or so apart.

Then the washing began in the bright sunshine, with the same results—a few tiny specks of colour, as the men termed their glittering scales of gold-dust.

“That’s your sort, gentlemen,” cried the Cornishman, washing out his pan, after tossing the contents away; “plenty of gold, and if you worked hard you might get about half enough to starve on. Why, we could ha’ done better at home, down in Wales. You can get a hundred pounds’ worth of gold there if you spend a hundred and fifty in labour.”

“Yes; but even this dust shows that we are getting into the gold region,” said Dallas.

“That’s right, my son, so come along and let’s get there. I s’pose we’re going right?”

“We must be,” said Dallas. “I have studied the maps well, and we passed the watershed—”

“Eh? We haven’t passed no watershed. Not so much as a tent.”

Dallas had to explain that they had crossed the mountains which shed the water in different directions.

“Oh, that’s it, is it, my son? I thought you meant something built up.”

“So he did,” said Abel, smiling, “by nature. When we were on the other side of the mountains the streams ran towards the south.”

“That’s right, master.”

“Now you see the direction in which the water runs is towards the north. Here in the map is the great Yukon River, running right across from east to west, and these lakes form the little rivers which must run into the Yukon.”

“And that’s the great gold river, my sons.”

“Yes; but we shall find what we want in the rivers and creeks that run down from the mountains to form the Yukon.”

“That’s all right, my son; so if we keep to these waters we must come to the right place at last.”

“I hope so.”

“So do I, my son; so, as they said at the ’Merican railway stations, ‘All aboard, and let’s get as far down to-day as we can.’”

They stepped on to the raft, cast off the rope, and each man picked up one of the twelve-foot pine-sapling poles they had provided for their navigation down the rapids, of which they had been warned at starting; and the big Cornishman planted himself in front.

“Anybody else like to come here?” he said.

There was a chorus of “No’s,” and he nodded and smiled.

“Thought I was best here to fend the raft off the rocks when she begins to race. I say, we’re going to have it lower down. Hear it?”

All nodded assent.

“If we are capsized, my sons,” continued the big fellow drily, “one of you had better swim up to me and take me on his back. What do you say, little un?” he added to Abel. “It’ll be your turn to help me.”

“I’ll stand by you,” cried Abel; “never fear.”

“I know that, my lad. I say, the stream begins to show now as the place gets narrower. Looks as if it’ll be nearly closed in. Well, we must risk it. There’s no walking as I see on either side.”

“Ahoy!” came from the right bank, where the lake was fast becoming a river.

“Ahoy to you, and good morning, whoever you are,” cried the Cornishman.

Some unintelligible words followed, he who uttered them being plainly to be seen now

on a ledge some fifty feet above the surface of the water. But his signs were easy to be understood.

“Wants us to give him a lift,” said Dallas. “Can we stop?”

“Oh, yes, and it would only be civil,” said the Cornishman. “Just room for one first-class passenger. All right; lend a hand here. I can touch bottom. ’Bout seven foot.”

Poles were thrust down, and the raft was urged across the flowing water till the eddy on the far side was reached, and then, with the fierce roar coming out of a narrow gap in the rocks a few hundred yards lower, the raft was easily thrust into a little cove below the man on the shelf.

“Going down the rapids?” he shouted.

“We are, my lad,” cried their captain. “Why?”

“Will you give a poor fellow a lift down? I can’t get any farther for the rocks.”

“Far as the gold country?”

“Oh, no: I don’t ask that. Only to where I can tramp again.”

“Well, we’ve just room for a little un,” said the Cornishman. “Much luggage?”

“Only this pack,” was the reply.

“Jump in, then,” said the leader, with a grim smile. “P’r’aps, though, you’d better come lower.”

The man nodded, slung his pack over his shoulder, and then, turning, began to descend the almost perpendicular face of the rocks, twice over narrowly escaping a bad fall. But at last he reached the foot, waded out a little, and then stepped on board.

“Thankye,” he said; “you are good Christians. I’ve been here a fortnight, and couldn’t get any farther. I shouldn’t have been alive now if I hadn’t got a fish or two.”

“You are tramping to the gold region all alone, then?”

“Yes, and I’ve nearly tramped all the way from Chicago.”

The Cornishman turned and stared.

“I got a lift sometimes on the cattle and freight trains, though, when I could creep on unseen.”

“The gold has a magnetic attraction for you, then?” said Abel.

“I suppose so, but it’s my last chance. This is a solitary way, though, isn’t it? I’ve hardly seen a soul. I saw your fire, though, last night, across yonder.”

“Did you see anybody go by on a raft three or four days ago?” cried Dallas eagerly.

“I did. Party of three, and hailed them.”

“What were they like?” cried Abel.

“Roughs; shacks; loafers. One of them had a big red beard.”

Dallas started, and glanced at Abel.

“A brute!” cried the stranger fiercely. “I asked them to give me a lift, as I was going to starve here if they didn’t, and I warned them that I had heard it wanted a strong party to take a craft through the rapids. ‘All right, stranger,’ he said, pushing the craft a little nearer. ‘Mind lending me your knife to trim this rough pole with? I’ve lost mine.’”

It was Abel now who glanced at Dallas.

“‘Catch,’ I said, pitching mine, in its sheath.”

“Well?” said the Cornishman, fumbling in his belt.

“Well,” continued the man, with a sombre look in his eyes, “he caught it, and began to smooth his pole, letting the raft drift away; and though I begged and prayed of them to stop for me, they only laughed, and let her get right into the current. It was life or death to me, as I thought then,” continued the stranger, “and I climbed along that shelf and followed, shouting and telling them I was starving, and begging them to throw me my knife back if they wouldn’t take me aboard; but they only laughed, and told me to go and hang myself. But I followed on as fast as I could, right along to the opening yonder where it’s so narrow that I could speak to them close to; and though I knew they couldn’t stop the raft there, I thought they’d throw me my knife.”

“And did they?” said the Cornishman.

“No. I was there just before them, and I shouted; but you can’t hear yourself speak there, the roar echoes so from the rocks. The next minute they’d been swept by me so near I could almost have jumped on board; and there I stood, holding on and reaching out so that I could see them tear down through the rushing water. They’d took fright, dropped their poles, and were down on their knees holding on, with the raft twisting slowly round.”

“Capsized?” cried Dallas.

“Drowned?” cried Abel.

“I could not see,” continued the stranger. “I watched them till they went into a sort of fog with a rainbow over it, and then I felt ready to jump in and try to swim, or get drowned, for without my knife I felt that all was over.”

“Not drowned, then?” said Dallas.

“No, my son; them as is born to be hanged’ll never be drowned,” said the big Cornishman grimly. “Look ye here, old chap, you’d better take this toothpick; it’s the one that the boss of that party who stole our raft lost.”

“Ah!” cried the stranger; “they stole your raft?”

“They did, my son, and it seems to me things aren’t at all square, for these here fellows are ready to do anything—from committing murder down to stealing a knife. Why, they’ve even cheated death, or else they’d be lying comfortably buried in the snow.”

“Ha!” ejaculated Dallas, as he stood grasping his pole, and the raft began to glide along.

“Yes, it is ‘Hah!’ my son,” said the Cornishman; “but I shouldn’t wonder if we came across a tree some day bearing fruit at the end of a hempen stalk. I say, though, my son, is the river below there so dangerous as you say?”

“Yes; it is a horrible fall, as far as I could see.”

“Then hadn’t you better stop ashore?”

“And starve?” said the man bitterly.

“You’re ready to risk it, then?” said Dallas.

“I’d risk anything rather than stop alone in this horrible solitude,” said the stranger excitedly.

“All right, then, my son. There’s a spare pole. Set your pack down; take hold, and come on.”

The stranger did as he was told, and took the place pointed out.

“If it’s as noisy as he says,” continued the Cornishman, “there’ll be no shouting orders—it’ll all be signs. So what you see me do you’ve got to follow. Spit in your hands, all of you, and hold tight with your feet. Stick to it, and we’ll get through. We must; there’s no other way.”

No one spoke in reply, but their companion’s cheery way of meeting the perils ahead sent a thrill of confidence through the party, as they stood on the triangular raft, noting that the current was gradually growing swifter as the rocky walls on either side closed in from being hundreds of yards apart to as many feet, and the distance lessening rapidly more and more.

It was horrible, but grand, and as the pace increased, a curious sensation of intoxicating excitement attacked the party, whose senses seemed to be quickened so that they could note the wondrous colours of the rocks, the vivid green of the ferns and herbs which clustered in the rifts and cracks, and the glorious clearness of the water.

So excited was the great fellow at the head of the raft that he raised his pole, turned to look at his companions, and then pointed onward, while moment by moment the great walls of rock seemed to close in upon them as if to crush all flat.

Up to now their progress had been a swift glide, but as they approached the narrow opening, which seemed not much more than wide enough to let them pass, the raft began to undulate and proceed by leaps, each longer than the last, while the water rippled over the side.

Then all at once the front portion—the apex of the elongated triangle—rose as if at a leap, dipped again, and they were off with a terrific rush in a narrow channel of rock, up whose sides the water rose as if to escape the turmoil. Wave rose above wave, struggling to get onward; there was the roar of many waters growing more deafening, and the raft was tossed about like a straw, its occupants being forced to kneel and try to fend her off from the sides. And now, to add to the horror, turmoil, and confusion, they plunged at a tremendous speed into a bank of churned up mist, dense as the darkest cloud, rushing onward in bounds and leaps which made the raft quiver, till all at once Dallas, who was near their captain, suddenly caught sight of a mass of rocks apparently rising out of the channel right in their way.

The next moment there was a terrific shock, a rush of water, black darkness, and everything seemed to be at an end.

Chapter Fifteen.

“Those born to be hanged.”

The preparations for fending the raft off the rocks that might be in their way, or keeping it from the wall-like sides which overhung them, were absurd; for as they were swept into the furious rapid, and whirled and tossed about, each man instinctively dropped his pole to crouch down and cling for dear life to the rough pieces of timber they had so laboriously notched, nailed, and bound together.

The course of the river was extremely erratic, zigzagging through the riven, rocky barrier which formed the ancient dam at the foot of the lake; and one minute they were swept to right, the next to left, while at every angle there was a whirlpool which threatened to suck them down.

Noise, darkness, the wild turmoil of tumbling waters, blinding mist, and choking spray, strangled and confused the little crew, so that they clung to the raft, feeling that all was over, and that they were about to be plunged deep down into the bowels of the earth. Dallas was conscious of wedging his toes between two of the timbers, clinging with his left hand, and reaching over the bound-down sledges to grasp Abel’s; and then all seemed to be blank for a length of time that he could not calculate. It might have been a minute—it might have been an hour; but he held on to his cousin’s hand, which clutched his in return in what seemed to be a death-grip, till all at once they were shot out into the bright sunshine, and were gliding at a tremendous rate down a water-slide, with the water hissing and surging about them where they knelt.

As soon as he could sweep the blinding spray from his eyes, Dallas looked round in wonder, to find that all his companions were upon the raft, and that the rocky walls on either side were receding fast as the river opened out, while the rapid down which they plunged seemed quite clear of rocks.

The deafening noise was dying out too, and as Dallas looked back at the fast growing distant gap in the rock through which they had been shot, he wondered that the raft should have held together with its freight, and that they should still be there.

His brain seemed still to be buzzing with the confusion, when he was conscious of some one beside him giving himself a shake like a great water-dog and shouting:

“What cheer, there! Not dead yet. Are any of you?”

There was no reply—every one looking strained and oppressed; then, without a word, the little party began to shake hands warmly, and the big Cornishman shook his head.

“It was a rum un!” he exclaimed; “it was a rum un! Well, we’re all alive O, and if we do get any gold, you may all do as you like, but I shall go back home some other way.”

The straightforward naïve way in which this was said seemed so absurd on the face of it that the cousins could not refrain from smiling: but the sight of a great mass of rock ahead dividing the swift stream into two, and toward which the raft seemed to be rushing fast, made all turn to seize their poles and fend it off from a certainty of wreck.

However, the poles were all probably being whirled round and round one of the pools they had passed, like scraps of straw, and the shattering of the raft seemed a certainty; but their big companion was a man of resource. Seating himself upon the edge of the raft as it glided evenly along, he waited with legs extended for the coming contact. His feet touched the rock, and a vigorous thrust eased their craft off, the brave fellow’s sturdy limbs acting like strong buffers, so that there was only a violent jerk, the raft swung round, and they went gliding on again.

The current was swift, but clear now from further obstacles, and hope grew strong.

“I say, I call it grand!” cried one of the men. “We shall soon get there if we keep on like this.”

“Yes, but the sooner one of us takes a rope and jumps ashore, the better. We must cut some fresh poles.”

This was done at the first opportunity, Abel leaping on to the rocky bank with a rope, as they glided by a spot where the forest of pines came down close to them; and then, seizing his opportunity, he gave the rope a turn round a small tree. There was a jerk, and the hemp threatened to part; but it held, and the raft swung round and became stationary as the rope was made fast.

The first proceeding was to wring out their garments, and the next to examine the sledges, which had been so well made fast when loaded up that they had not stirred; but some of the stores were damaged with water.

“Can’t help it,” said Dallas cheerily. “Our lives are saved.”

Something was done towards their drying by the warm sunshine, for this came down brightly, though the aspect round was growing almost as wintry as the country they had passed through higher up beyond the lake; and as they gazed at the mountains, which they felt must lie somewhere near the part for which they were aiming, it seemed as if they would, after all, be arriving too soon for successful work.

The raft proved useful for some days on their way north by river and lake, their journey being through a labyrinth of waterways, where again and again they made halts in likely places to try for the object of their search.

But the result was invariably the same; they found gold, but never in sufficient quantity to warrant a stay.

“Wouldn’t pay for bread and onions, my sons,” said the Cornishman, and they pushed on farther and farther into the northern solitudes, with their loads growing lighter, and a feeling of longing to reach the golden land where they knew something in the way of settlements and stores existed, and where people could at once take up claims and begin work. For a comparison of notes proved that they were all rapidly coming to the end of their means.

The subject of the passage of the raft down the cataract had been several times over discussed during their halts, and the possibility of their enemies having escaped. The Cornishman and his companions, including the man they had succoured, declared as one that the marauding trio must have perished.

“And so should we, my sons,” said the big fellow, “if we had gone down that water-slide on the first raft.”

“I do not see it,” said Dallas; “we made both.”

“Yes; but the first was when we were ’prentices, the second was when we had served our time.”

The speaker laughed as he said this; and as it happened, it was on the second day after that he pointed with something like triumph to some newly cut and trimmed young pieces of pine-trunk notched in a peculiar way, cast up among some rocks on the shores of the little lake they were crossing.

“That’s the end of ’em, my sons,” he said.

“Oh, no; any one may have cut down those trees.”

“For sartain, my son; but I nailed ’em together, for there’s one of my spikes still sticking in. Good nail, too; see how it’s twisted and bent.”

This seemed unanswerable, but neither Abel nor Dallas was convinced.

“They may have swum ashore,” Abel said to his cousin, as they lay down to sleep that night.

“Yes,” said Dallas, “and I shall hold to Bob’s proverb about those born to be hanged.”

Chapter Sixteen.

A plunge into hot quarters.

“So this is the golden city,” said Dallas, as he and Abel sat, worn out and disconsolate, gazing at a confusion of tents, sheds, and shanties, for it could be called nothing else, on the hither side of a tumbled together waste of snow and ice spreading to right and left. “Is it all a swindle or a dream?”

“I hope it’s a dream,” replied his cousin, limping a step or two, and then seating himself on the sledge which, footsore and weary, he had been dragging for the last few days after they had finally abandoned their raft. “I hope it’s a dream, and that we shall soon wake.”

The big Cornishman took his short pipe out of his mouth, blew a big cloud, looked at his companions, who were asleep rolled up in their blankets, and then at the cousins.

“Oh, we’re wide awake enough, my sons,” he said, “and we’ve got here at last.”

“Yes,” said Dallas bitterly; “we’ve got here, and what next?”

“Make our piles, as the Yankees call it, my lads.”

“Where?” cried Abel. “Why, we had better have stayed and washed gold-dust out of the sand up one of those streams.”

“Oh, you mustn’t judge of a place first sight; but I must say it aren’t pretty. People seems to chuck everything they don’t want out o’ doors, like the fisher folk down at home in Cornwall. But it’s worse here, for they’ve got no sea to come up and wash the rubbish away.”

“Nor yet a river,” said Dallas. “I expected the Yukon to be a grand flowing stream.”

“Well, give it a chance, my son,” said the big fellow cheerily. “A river can’t flow till it begins to thaw a bit. Chap tells me it’s very late this year, but it’ll break up and clear itself in a few hours. Says it’s a sight worth seeing.”

“But we did not come to see sights,” said Abel peevishly. “Where’s that other man?”

“Gone. Told me to tell you both that he was very grateful for the help you had given him, and that now he’s going to shift for himself.”

“The way of the world!” said Dallas dismally.

“Oh, I don’t know, my son. He’s right enough. Said if he had the luck to find a good claim up one of the creeks he should peg out five more alongside of it and come and look us up, and made me promise I’d do the same to him. What do you think of that?”

“Nothing,” said Dallas. “I’m too tired out to think of anything but eating and sleeping, and there seems to be no chance of finding a place to do either.”

“No, my son; it’s a case of help yourself. I’ve been having a look round, and the only thing I can find anybody wants to sell is whisky.”

“Yes, that was all they had at the store I went to. That’s the place with the iron roof and the biscuit-tin sides—yonder, where those howling dogs are tied up.”

“Ah, I went there,” said the Cornishman, “and the Yankee chap it belongs to called it his hotel. But to go back to what we are to do next, my son. We mustn’t stay here, but go up to one of the little streams they’re talking about, and peg out claims as soon as we find good signs. Now, I’ve been thinking, like our chap who lost his knife, that we’d better separate here and go different ways. If we find a good place we’ll come to you, and if you find one you’ll share with us. What do you say?”

“Tired of our company?” asked Abel bitterly.

The big fellow turned to him and smiled.

“Look here, my son,” he said, “that foot of yours hurts you more than you owned to. You take my advice; after we’ve got a bit of a fire and made our camp and cooked our bit o’ supper, you make a tin o’ water hot and bathe it well, and don’t you use that foot much for a day or two. No, my sons, I’m not tired of you. If I had been I should ha’ said good-bye days ago. I’m sorry for us to break up our party, but I’ve been thinking that what I proposed was the best plan, even if it does sound rough.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Dallas, speaking in a more manly way. “I beg your pardon. So does my cousin here. We’re fagged out, and this does seem such a damper. I wish we were back somewhere in the pine-woods.”

“Tchah! I don’t want no pardons begged, my son. I know. When I saw this lovely spot first I felt as if I could sit down and swear; but what good would that ha’ done? It’ll be all right. Now it seems to me that we shall be more comfort’ble if we go just over yonder away from the hotels and places, make our bit o’ fire, get a pannikin of tea, and then two of us’ll stop and look after the traps in case any one should come and want to borrow things and we not know where they’re gone. T’others had better have a look round and drop in here and there at these places where the men meet. It won’t do to be proud out here. I want to see some of the gold.”

“Eh?” cried a big, hearty voice, and a man who was passing stopped short and looked at them. “Want to see some of the gold? Well, there you are!”

He unfastened a strap that went across his breast, and drew a heavy leather satchel from where it hung like a cartouche-box on his back.

“Catch hold,” he cried. “That’s some of the stuff.”

The three awake looked at the stranger sharply, and the Cornishman opened the bag, to lay bare scales, grains, and water-worn and rubbed scraps of rich yellow gold, at the sight of which the new-comers drew their breath hard.

“Did you get this here?” cried Dallas.

“Not here, my lad, but at Upper Creek. That lot and two more like it. You’d better go on there as soon as you can if you want to take up claims; but I must tell you that all the best are gone already.”

“Which is the way?” cried Abel.

“I’ll show you when I go back to-morrow, if you like. Where shall you be?”

“Camping just over there,” said Dallas, pointing.

“All right. I’m going to sleep at the hotel to-night. Come on by-and-by and see me, and we’ll have a chat.”

“I say, my son,” said their big companion, putting his hand in the bag, half filling it, and letting the gold run back again, before beginning to fasten the flap.

“My son! Why, you’re a Cornishman.”

“That’s so.”

“Glad to see a West-countryman out here. I’m from Devonport. But come on and have a chat by-and-by. What were you going to say, though?”

“Seeing what a set of rough pups there are about here, my son, I was going to say, is it safe for a man to carry about a lot of gold like that?”

The stranger took back his bag and slung it over his shoulder again, as he looked from one to the other, half-closed his eyes, and nodded.

“Yes, and no, my lads. You’re right; we have got some rough pups about here—chaps who’d put a bullet into a man for a quarter of what I’ve got there. But they daren’t. We’ve got neither law nor police, you see.”

“No, I don’t see,” said Dallas. “You speak in riddles.”

“You don’t see, my lad, because you’re a Johnny Newcome. I’ll tell you. We’ve got some of the most blackguardly scum that could be took off the top of the big town sink-holes—men who’ve come to rob and gamble; but we’ve got, too, plenty of sturdy fellows like yourselves, who mean work and who trust one another—men who’ll help each other at a pinch; and I’ve heard that there’s a sort of lawyer fellow they call Judge Lynch has put in an appearance, and he stands no nonsense. He’s all on the side of the honest workers, and one of them has only to denounce a man as a thief for the Vigilants to nail him at once. Then there’s a short trial, a short shrift, and there’s one rogue the less in the world.”

“You mean if he’s proved to be a thief, or red-handed.”

“That’s it, my lads. There, I’ve got some friends to meet. Come on and see me to-night.”

The speaker nodded cheerily to all three, and went off at a swinging gait.

“Well, I wouldn’t have minded shaking hands with that chap,” said the big Cornishman. “The more of that sort there is out here the better.”

“Yes,” cried Dallas; “his words were quite cheering.”

“So was the sight of that little leather sack of his, my sons. Do your foot good, Mr Wray?”

“Yes, I forgot all about it,” said Abel, eagerly. “Here, let’s make our fire.”

This was done, and the billy soon began to bubble, when the tea was thrown in and declared to be delicious, in spite of a mouldy taste consequent upon getting wet in its travels and being dried again.

“Better if we hadn’t had all our sugar spoiled,” said Dallas, as he munched his biscuit along with a very fat rusty scrap of fried bacon.

“It don’t want any sugar, my son,” said the Cornishman. “I’ve just stirred a teaspoonful of that chap’s gold-dust into it, and it has given it a wonderful flavour.”

“Yes,” said Abel, “the sight of that gold seems to have quite changed everything.”

The meal was finished, with the whole party refreshed and in the best of spirits. Then the sledges were drawn together, a few small pine-saplings bound on to make a roof, over which a couple of waterproof sheets were drawn, and there was a rough tent for a temporary home.

By that time it was evening, and lanterns were being hung out here and there, lamps lit in the shanties, and the place began to look more lively. In two tents there was the sound of music—a fiddle in one, a badly played German concertina in the other; but the result was not cheerful, for whenever they were in hearing the great shaggy sledge-dogs, of which there were scores about, set up a dismal barking and howling.

The Cornishman’s two friends had cheerfully elected to keep the camp, at a word from their big companion, and the other three started to have a look at the place and end by calling at the hotel upon their new acquaintance.