upant looked wildly around in the darkness but
presently managed to make a fire by which to warm and dry himself.

He muttered incoherently meanwhile.

"I didn't do it--'twas the wind--dark and wild--couldn't stop the
boat--terrible storm--two hands in the water--Jove! where's that
whiskey?" and he fumbled among the supplies under the tarpaulin. When he
had found it and drunk deeply he felt stronger and replenished the fire.

"The ledge! The hidden ledge! It's all mine now, yes, mine, mine!" and
he hugged himself in his greedy, guilty joy.

"To-morrow I'll sell the grub and backtrack to the coast to guard it."

The storm died away and the cold, bright moon shone searchingly. The man
lay down in the boat to rest, pulling his furs and tarpaulin over him.

Sleep did not immediately come at his bidding. He saw and heard
affrighting things. The rush and roar of the elements--two hands
flashing out of the ink-black water--the cry of horror--but he wanted to
forget, and at last, in spite of all, he slept.

* * * * *

An Indian guide trudged heavily up the long trail toward the summit. He
was closely followed by a white man and both were headed southward. The
guide carried a heavy pack on his back, but the white man was "traveling
light."

When night came they camped and rested; amusing themselves for a while
with a poker game. Black bottles kept them company. At last trouble
arose over the cards. Smithson had indiscreetly allowed his guide a
glimpse of his money belt, and though the white man was well armed, in a
moment of forgetfulness he allowed the native to pass behind him; when a
sudden shot and thud upon the ground quickly settled forever all scores
between them.

An Indian seldom smiles.

This one smiled gloomily now; muttering as he wiped the revolver in his
hand:

"Him bad white man yesterday,--good man now,--heap long time sleep."

Half an hour later the sure-footed Indian cautiously made his way along
the trail. Stars twinkled overhead. A well filled money belt, a
revolver, and blankets ornamented his person, though only the latter
were visible.

The "Hidden Ledge" was close at hand, but unknowingly he passed it by;
its secret having been, for the present, buried with the two partners
who were numbered among the strenuous stampeders on the White Pass
Trail.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV

A NEW KLONDYKE

Two miners sat smoking in a small log cabin in Dawson