, but
only to operate in the same manner at some other spot. This was going
on spasmodically in many directions, the snow brushing up in hissing
eddies at each attack. And slowly the grey mist on the hills was
obscuring the sun.

Robb Chillingwood was a man of some experience on the prairie,
although, as his companion had said, he was new to this particular
mountain trail. To his trained eye the outlook was not encouraging.

"Storm," he observed shortly.

"That's my opinion," said Grey definitely.

"According to calculations, if we have not got off the trail,"
Chillingwood went on, with a sly look at his superior, "we should
reach Dougal's roadside hostelry in the Pass by eight o'clock--well
before dark. We ought to escape the storm."

"You mean we shall," said Grey pointedly.

"If--"

"Bunkum!"

The two men relapsed into silence. They were very good friends these
two. Both were used to the strenuous northern winter. Both understood
the dangers of a blizzard. Their argument about the trail they were on
was quite a friendly one. It was only the dictatorial manner of Leslie
Grey which gave it the appearance of a quarrel. Chillingwood
understood him, and took no notice of his somewhat irascible remarks,
whilst, for himself, he remained of opinion that he had read his
Ordnance chart aright.

They tramped on. Each man, with a common thought, was watching the
weather indications. As the time passed the wind "patches" grew in
size, in force, and in frequency of recurrence. The haze upon the
surrounding hills rapidly deepened, and the air was full of frost
particles. A storm was coming on apace. Nor was Dougal's wayside
hostelry within sight.

"It's a rotten life on the boundary," said Robb, as though continuing
a thought aloud.

"It's not so much the life," replied Grey vindictively, "it's the
d----d red tape that demands the half-yearly journey down country.
That's the dog's part of our business. Why can't they establish a
branch bank up here for the bullion and send all 'returns' by mail?
There is a postal service--of a kind. It's a one-horsed lay
out--Government work. There'll come a rush to the Yukon valley
this year, and when there's a chance of doing something for
ourselves--having done all we can for the Government--I suppose
they'll shift us. It's the way of Governments. I'm sick of it. I
draw four thousand dollars a year, and I earn every cent of it.
You--"

"Draw one thousand, and think myself luck