is comrades
of the trail for he called to them anxiously, again and again. He had
led them for the last time. When the cry "HYak KILpy" came next day he
would not be there!

Having seen him safely stowed below deck I returned to the trail for a
final word with Burton.

There he stood, on the dock, brown with camp-fire smoke, worn and
weather beaten, his tireless hands folded behind his back, a remote,
dreaming, melancholy look in his fearless eyes. His limp sombrero rested
grotesquely awry upon his shaggy head, his trousers bulged awkwardly at
the knees--but he was a warrior! Thin and worn and lame he was about to
set forth single-handedly on a journey whose circuit would carry him far
within the Arctic Circle.

The boat began to move. "Good luck, Old Man," I called.

"Good Luck!" he huskily responded. "My love to the folks."

I never saw him again.

I went to Wrangell, and while camped there waiting for a boat to take me
back to the States I heard of a "strike" at Atlin, somewhere back of
Skaguay. I decided to join this rush, and so, leaving my horse to
pasture in the lush grass of the hill-side, I took steamer for the
north. Again I outfitted, this time at Skaguay. I crossed the famous
White Pass. I reached Atlin City. I took a claim.

A month later I returned to Wrangell, picked up Ladrone, shipped with
him to Seattle and so ceased to be a goldseeker.

In Seattle my wonder and affection for Ladrone increased. He had never
seen a big town before, or heard a street car, or met a switching
engine, and yet he followed me through the city like a trustworthy dog,
his nose pressed against my shoulder as if he knew I would protect him.
At the door of the freight car which I had chartered, he hesitated, but
only for an instant. At the word of command he walked the narrow plank
into the dark interior and there I left him with food and water, billed
for St. Paul where I expected to meet him and transfer him to a car for
West Salem. It all seemed very foolish to some people and my only
explanation was suggested by a brake-man who said, "He's a runnin'
horse, ain't he?"

"Yes, he's valuable. Take good care of him. He is Arabian."

CHAPTER SIX

The Return of the Artist

After an absence of five months I returned to La Crosse just in time to
eat Old Settlers Dinner with my mother at the County Fair, quite as I
used to do in the "early days" of Iowa. It was the customary annual
round-up of the pioneers, a tim