In Seattle and San Francisco people were still asleep and darkness was
heavy over the land. Here it had been day for a long time, ever since
the summer sun, hidden for a while behind the low, distant hills, had
come blazing forth again in a saddle between two peaks.
Gordon had reduced his pack by discarding a blanket, the frying-pan,
and all the clothing he was not wearing. His rifle lay behind him in the
swamp. He had cut to a minimum of safety what he was carrying, according
to his judgment. But before long his last blanket was flung aside. He
could not afford to carry an extra pound, for he knew he was running a
race, the stakes of which were life and death.
A cloud of mosquitoes moved with him. He carried in his hand a spruce
bough for defense against them. His hands were gloved, his face was
covered with netting. But in spite of the best he could do they were an
added torture.
Afternoon found him still staggering forward. The swamps were now
behind him. He had won through at last by the narrowest margin possible.
The ground was rising sharply toward the mountains. Across the range
somewhere lay Kamatlah. But he was all in. With his food almost gone,
a water supply uncertain, reserve strength exhausted, the chances of
getting over the divide to safety were practically none.
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