back to his empty cabin. Before entering
he paused as usual to note the weather--it was a habit. He saw that the
sky was strangely leaden and low, and in spite of the fact that the
"quick" was falling rapidly, the air was lifeless and close. If McGill
was any judge, that squall had been but a warning, and foretold more to
follow. He sighed miserably at the thought of the night his wife would
have to face.

He cooked his supper mechanically, then sat for hours staring at it. The
wind rattling at his door finally roused him to the knowledge that his
fire was out and the room chilly. Being unable longer to bear the
silence and the mute evidences of her occupation that looked at him from
every side, he slipped into his parka and went down to Hopper's place,
where there were life and human voices at least.

The night was yelling with a million voices when he stepped out. The
bitter wind snapped his fur garment as if to rend it to ribbons, the
whirling particles of snow rasped his face like the dry grains from a
sand-blast. Boreas had loosed his demons, and they were lashing the
night into chaos. McGill felt a sudden tender concern for the woman, a
concern so great as almost to destroy his bitterness, but he reflected
that he had seen to loading the sled himself, and among the other
paraphernalia had included a tent and a stove. Unless Barclay was a
fool, therefore, Alice was perfectly safe. There was wood aplenty, and
the spruce forests offered shelter from the gale. The thought awakened a
memory of those night camps he had made on that dreamlike
wedding-journey and brought forth a groan. How old and spiritless he had
become; he could scarcely stand against the wind!

Of course the story had gone broadcast, hours before, for other eyes
than his had watched the man and woman take the outbound trail that
afternoon, so when he came stumbling into Hopper's place a sudden
silence fell. He went directly to the bar and called for straight
"hootch," to drive the cold from his bones, but, although it warmed his
flesh, his soul remained numb and frozen. Inside him was a great aching
emptiness that even Hopper's kindly words could not reach.

"Looks like the worst night we've had this year," said the proprietor.
"Better have a drink with me."

McGill's teeth rattled on the glass when he put it to his lips. "She's
gone!" he whispered, staring across the bar, "and I didn't kill him. I
couldn't--on her account."

Hopper nodded. "I'