"They got stalled and cut loose the horses. Must
have tried to ride the cayuses to shelter."
"To Smith's Crossing?" asked Gordon.
"Expect so." Then, with a whoop, the man on the sled contradicted
himself. "No, by Moses, to Dick Fiddler's old cabin up the draw. That's
where Swiftwater would aim for till the blizzard was over."
"Where is it?" demanded his friend.
"Swing over to the right and follow the little gulch. I'll wait till you
come back."
Gordon dropped the gee-pole and started on the instant. Eagerness,
anxiety, dread fought in his heart. He knew that any moment now he might
stumble upon the evidence of the sad story which is repeated in Alaska
many times every winter. It rang in him like a bell that where tough,
hardy miners succumbed a frail girl would have small chance.
He cut across over the hill toward the draw, and at what he saw his
pulse quickened. Smoke was pouring out of the chimney of a cabin and
falling groundward, as it does in the Arctic during very cold weather.
Had Sheba found safety there? Or was it the winter home of a prospector?
As he pushed forward the rising sun flooded the earth with pink and
struck a million sparkles of color from the snow.
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