which they
swung steadily along. At seven o'clock, the blackness was broken by a
last display of the aurora borealis, which showed to the west a broad
opening between snow-clad mountains.

"Squaw Creek!" Joy exclaimed.

"Goin' some," Shorty exulted. "We oughtn't to been there for another
half hour to the least, accordin' to my reckonin'. I must 'a' been
spreadin' my legs."

It was at this point that the Dyea trail, baffled by ice-jams, swerved
abruptly across the Yukon to the east bank. And here they must leave
the hard-packed, main-travelled trail, mount the jams, and follow a dim
trail, but slightly packed, that hovered the west bank.

Louis Gastell, leading, slipped in the darkness on the rough ice, and
sat up, holding his ankle in both his hands. He struggled to his feet
and went on, but at a slower pace and with a perceptible limp. After a
few minutes he abruptly halted.

"It's no use," he said to his daughter. "I've sprained a tendon. You go
ahead and stake for me as well as yourself."

"Can't we do something?" Smoke asked solicitously.

Louis Gastell shook his head. "She can stake two claims as well as one.
I'll crawl over to the bank, start a fire, and bandage my ankle. I'll be
all right. Go on, Joy. Stake ours above the Discovery claim; it's richer
higher up."

"Here's some birch bark," Smoke said, dividing his supply equally.
"We'll take care of your daughter."

Louis Gastell laughed harshly. "Thank you just the same," he said. "But
she can take care of herself. Follow her and watch her."

"Do you mind if I lead?" she asked Smoke, as she headed on. "I know this
country better than you."

"Lead on," Smoke answered gallantly, "though I agree with you it's a
darned shame all us chechakos are going to beat that Sea Lion bunch to
it. Isn't there some way to shake them?"

She shook her head. "We can't hide our trail, and they'll follow it like
sheep."

After a quarter of a mile, she turned sharply to the west. Smoke noticed
that they were going through unpacked snow, but neither he nor Shorty
observed that the dim trail they had been on still led south. Had they
witnessed the subsequent procedure of Louis Gastell, the history of the
Klondike would have been written differently; for they would have seen
that old-timer, no longer limping, running with his nose to the trail
like a hound, following them. Also, they would have seen him trample
and widen the turn to the fresh trail they had made to the we