Several hundred yards beneath, the trail led across a small glacier and
down to Crater Lake. Other men packed across the glacier. All that day
he dropped his packs at the glacier's upper edge, and, by virtue of the
shortness of the pack, he put his straps on one hundred and fifty pounds
each load. His astonishment at being able to do it never abated. For two
dollars he bought from an Indian three leathery sea-biscuits, and out of
these, and a huge quantity of raw bacon, made several meals. Unwashed,
unwarmed, his clothing wet with sweat, he slept another night in the
canvas.

In the early morning he spread a tarpaulin on the ice, loaded it with
three-quarters of a ton, and started to pull. Where the pitch of the
glacier accelerated, his load likewise accelerated, overran him, scooped
him in on top, and ran away with him.

A hundred packers, bending under their loads, stopped to watch him. He
yelled frantic warnings, and those in his path stumbled and staggered
clear. Below, on the lower edge of the glacier, was pitched a small
tent, which seemed leaping toward him, so rapidly did it grow larger. He
left the beaten track where the packers' trail swerved to the left,
and struck a patch of fresh snow. This arose about him in frosty smoke,
while it reduced his speed. He saw the tent the instant he struck it,
carrying away the corner guys, bursting in the front flaps, and fetching
up inside, still on top of the tarpaulin and in the midst of his
grub-sacks. The tent rocked drunkenly, and in the frosty vapour he found
himself face to face with a startled young woman who was sitting up in
her blankets--the very one who had called him a tenderfoot at Dyea.

"Did you see my smoke?" he queried cheerfully.

She regarded him with disapproval.

"Talk about your magic carpets!" he went on.

"Do you mind removing that sack from my foot?" she said coldly.

He looked, and lifted his weight quickly.

"It wasn't a sack. It was my elbow. Pardon me."

The information did not perturb her, and her coolness was a challenge.

"It was a mercy you did not overturn the stove," she said.

He followed her glance and saw a sheet-iron stove and a coffee-pot,
attended by a young squaw. He sniffed the coffee and looked back to the
girl.

"I'm a chechako," he said.

Her bored expression told him that he was stating the obvious. But he
was unabashed.

"I've shed my shooting-irons," he added.

Then she recognized him, and her eyes lighte