He glowed with pleasure as he looked forward to a time when moneylenders and dunning creditors would be conspicuously absent.

It was Shanks who brought the trouble upon them. Shanks had hit upon a Thlinklet encampment a mile or two down the creek. There were about a dozen mop-headed, beady-eyed men, and some two dozen women--two apiece--and children. Shanks in his wanderings after adventure had met a more than usually attractive Thlinklet girl. She had not been averse to his approaches and it ended in a pretty little love-scene, upon which the husband was indiscreet enough to intrude. Having some hard things to say to Shanks, who unfortunately for the devoted husband, knew a lot of the Thlinklet dialect, and who resented aspersions upon his character from an "Injun Polygamist," the latter promptly shot him.

The girl screamed with terror, and the Thlinklet community ran as one man to the scene of the tragedy. Shanks, reading swift annihilation in their eyes, promptly "beat it" for the hut.

They were now in the midst of their trouble. All the Indians had turned out armed to the teeth. Not unskilled in the art of war, they had garbed themselves in white furs, presenting an almost impossible target for the men inside the hut. A spokesman had come forward demanding the body of Shanks, and was told to go to blazes. They now crept along the deep ravine spread out over the snowy whiteness.

"I wish you'd kep' your courtin' till we got to 'Frisco," growled Lonagon.

"I didn't even kiss the gal!" retorted Shanks. "I was jest telling her----"

There was a report from outside, and a rifle-bullet whizzed within a few inches of his head.

"Gee, they've got guns!" exclaimed Lonagon. "That's darn unfortunate!"

D'Arcy crept forward and, squinting through the small loop-hole, fired twice. He gave a grunt of great satisfaction.

"That's one less."

A fusillade of shots came from the ravine. They ripped through the thick logs and out the other side. D'Arcy drew in his breath with a hiss.

"They'll get us when the light goes," he said.

"h.e.l.l they will!"

"Looky here," said Shanks, "let's hike out and get at 'em. Can't shoot through these little slits."

"They're about four to one--and there are at least six rifles there," said D'Arcy.

Shanks sneered.

"They couldn't hit an iceberg."

"Reckon they could, with an arrow," growled Lonagon. "We'd be crazed to go out there."

D'Arcy was for following Shanks' advice. They debated the point for a few minutes and then decided to attempt an attack. But the decision was made too late. There came a diabolical yell down the ravine. Shanks ran to a loop-hole.

"Gosh!--they're coming--the whole lot of them!" he cried.

The three men ran to their posts and commenced firing at the leaping figures of the Thlinklets. Three or four of them bit the snow, but the remainder reached the hut. Shots came through and the sound of hatchets sounded on the thick logs.

D'Arcy fired and a scream of anguish followed. Then he threw up his arms and fell back with a groan, his rifle sticking in the slit through which it had fired. Shanks ran to him, and saw a round hole through his coat, near the heart, around which the blood was freezing as it issued. There was obviously nothing to be done with D'Arcy. Shanks dragged the rifle from the hole and reloaded it, cursing and swearing like a madman. Still came the steady thud, thud of the hatchets, but they rang much more hollow, and the two defenders expected to see part of the wall go down at any moment. Suddenly the sound of hatchets ceased and some of the noise subsided. Lonagon peeped through a crack, and saw half a dozen Indians coming up with a battering-ram in the shape of a felled tree. They approached at a wide angle, out of the line of fire.

"Shanks, it's all up. Get your six shooter--we'll have the black devils inside in a minute."

Shanks flung down the rifle and s.n.a.t.c.hed the revolver from his belt. He bent low and took a glimpse at what was happening outside. The Indians were but twenty yards away, and preparing to charge the half dissected portion of the wall with their heavy ram. He tried to get a shot at them, but could not get enough angle on to the revolver.

He saw them ambling towards him, and then, to his surprise, one of them gasped and pitched headlong. The remainder stood, transfixed, at this inexplicable occurrence. Before they recovered from their amazement another man howled with pain and placed one hand over a perforated shoulder. From afar came the sharp crack of a firearm. Shanks suddenly saw the shooter, high up on the ice wall above them.

"Gee whiz! Lonagon--it's a big feller up on the cliff! Whoever he is, he's got Buffalo Bill beaten to a frazzle. Did you see that? A bull's-eye at three hundred feet, and with a six-shooter. It clean wallops the band!"

He unbarred the door, as the remaining Thlinklets went helter-skelter down the ravine, and waved his hands to the figure above him. Lonagon turned to the still form of D'Arcy. He lifted the latter on the camp-bed, poured some whisky between his teeth, and saw the eyes open and shine gla.s.sily.

"How's it going?" he queried.

D'Arcy gave a weak smile.

"I'm finished with gold-digging, Pat. It's a rotten shame to have to let go just when luck has changed ... but that's life all over.... I'm cold--cold."

Lonagon, who recognized Death when he saw it coming, pulled some blankets over D'Arcy and turned moodily away. His was not a sentimental nature.

Forty years in the North had killed sentiment, but he liked D'Arcy--and it hurt. He went out to get a sight of their unknown ally.

He found him and his hungry, grizzled team coming down the ravine with Shanks. It was Jim--but scarcely the Jim of old. For a month he had traveled up from Dawson and among the merciless peaks, eating but half rations and fighting storm and snow with all the power of his indomitable will. He looked like a great gaunt spectre, with hollow cheeks and eyes that shone in unearthly fashion. Shanks could not make head or tail of him. His proffered hand had been neglected and his few questions went unanswered. He was pleased when Lonagon turned up, for he had a deadly fear of madmen.

"What cheer, stranger!" cried Lonagon. "You turned up in the nick of time."

Jim stopped the sled and regarded him fixedly.

"Are you--Lonagon?" he asked in a husky voice.

"Sure!"

"Then where's D'Arcy? I want D'Arcy. D'ye git that? It's D'Arcy I'm after."

Lonagon looked at Shanks. Shanks tapped his forehead significantly to indicate that in his opinion the stranger had left the major portion of his senses out on the trail, and wasn't safe company.

"So--you want D'Arcy?" quavered Lonagon.

"I said so."

"Wal, you're only jest in time. Come right in and see for yourself."

Jim reeled across to the cabin and hesitated on the threshold.

"It's kinder private," he growled.

"Oh, like that, is it?"

Lonagon began to smell a rat. He pursed his lips and met Jim's flaming eyes. Undaunted, he placed his back to the door.

"See here, we're mighty obliged to you for plugging them Injuns, but you ain't going in there till we know what your game is. You ain't safe--there's a skeery look in your eyes and--" he lowered his voice--"D'Arcy is. .h.i.tting the long trail."

Jim started back in amazement. The news brought him the bitterest disappointment he had yet suffered. After all this terrible time on the trail fate was to rob him of his reward! For a moment he became suspicious.

"So he put you up to that, eh? Better stand away. I ain't in a humor for hossplay. We got a score to settle."

Shanks stepped up to him.

"That score will be settled in less'n an hour. The Injuns got D'Arcy over the heart. Go in and see. I reckon you'll find there's no need to settle scores."