"Yep," he gasped. "But it sure did blow some."

"Yes--it's a good job we were inside the snow-drift," she replied
indifferently.

He put down the mug of cocoa that he had taken up. Of all bewildering
things this was the most bewildering. She was acting again--acting in her
own subtle fashion. He came to the conclusion that women were beyond his
comprehension--and Angela most of all.

On the next morning the temperature was moderately high. They left the
river and found a good trail along the bank. Angela asked no questions
regarding his destination. She had got beyond caring very much now. She
determined to adopt an attitude of cold indifference.

The sled was negotiating a bad piece of trail when it suddenly stopped,
and she heard an ejaculation from behind her. She saw Jim step down and
examine something black in the snow. She gave a little cry as he caught
the black object and pulled it up--it was a dead man, frozen as stiff as
a board.

"Poor devil!" muttered Jim. "I guess he got caught in that wind."

He searched through the pockets of the mackinaw coat, but found nothing
that would act as a means to identification. He let the body fall and
covered it with snow.

"Aren't you going to bury him?"

He nodded and looked round him in expectant fashion.

"Must have a shack or a tent round about. He's got no pack of any kind. If
it was a tent, likely enough it's a hundred miles away by now. If it was a
shack it'll be very useful--to us."

She prayed it might be the latter. Anything was better than this mad
wandering.

They found the shack ten minutes later, nestling in a hollow, with its
chimney still smoking. They pulled up outside and went to investigate the
home of the unfortunate stranger. It was a comfortable affair, containing
two rooms and a small outhouse, plus a certain amount of rough furniture.
In the corner of the outer room was the ubiquitous Yukon stove, with a
fryingpan on the top containing a much overdone "flapjack." A pair of
snow-shoes lay in a corner, and sundry articles of clothing were hanging
on nails. In the next room was a camp-bed and more clothes, two bags of
flour, one of beans, a few tins of canned meat, a rifle and a hundred
cartridges--but no letters or information of any kind respecting its late
owner.

"It'll do," said Jim. "It'll be better than a tent, anyway."

Angela agreed reluctantly. Somehow it seemed heartless to coolly take
possession of this place, with its late