n the warm tracks of the discoverers, while rarely does the
goddess smile on the tardy; in consequence, no frenzy approaches that of
the gold stampede.

Passing Sully's place, they found him and his partner ready and waiting,
their packs on the saw-buck. Crowley glared at his enemy in silence
while the other sneered wickedly back, and Big Knute laughed in his
yellow beard.

Buck's heart sank. Could he outlast these two? He was a boy; they were
reckless giants with thews and legs of iron. Knute was a gaunt-framed
Viking; Sully a violent, florid man with the quarters of an ox. Through
the quixotism of Maynard this trip bade fair to combine the killing
grind of a long, fierce stampede with the bitter struggle of man and
man, and too well he knew the temper of his red-headed partner to doubt
that before the last stake was driven either he or Sully would be down.
From the glare in their eyes at passing it came over him that either he
or Knute would recross the mountains partnerless. The trail was too
narrow for these other men. He shrank from the toil and agony he felt
was coming to him through this; then, with it, there came the burning
gold-hunger; the lust that drives starving, broken wrecks onward
unremittingly, over misty hills, across the beds of lava and the
forbidden tundra; on, into the new diggings.

It neared eight o'clock, and, although darkness was far distant, the
chill that follows the sun fell sharply.

As they swung out on to the river their fatigue had dropped away and
they moved with the steady, loose gait of the hardened "musher." Buck
looked at his watch. They had been gone an hour.

"The race is on!" said he.

Though unhurried, their progress was likewise unhindered, and the miles
slipped backward as the darkness thickened, hour by hour. Straight up
the fifty-mile stream to its source, over the great backbone and into
the unmapped country their course led. If they hurried they would have
first choice of the good claims close about the discovery; if they
lagged Sully and his ox-eyed partner would overtake them, and beyond
that it was unpleasant to conjecture.

"We'll hit water pretty soon!" Crowley's voice broke hours of silence,
for they were sparing of language. They neither whistled nor sang nor
spoke, for Man is a potential body from which his store of energy wastes
through tiny unheeded ways.

True to prophecy, in the darkness of midnight they walked out upon a
thin skin of newly frozen ic