for and unpitied. Heedless of those that fell,
the gap closed up, the march went on. The great army crawled up and over
the summit. Far behind could we see them, hundreds, thousands, a
countless host, all with "Klondike" on their lips and the lust of the
gold-lure in their hearts. It was the Great Stampede.

"Klondike or bust," was the slogan. It was ever on the lips of those
bearded men. "Klondike or bust"--the strong man, with infinite patience,
righted his overturned sleigh, and in the face of the blinding blizzard,
pushed on through the clogging snow. "Klondike or bust"--the weary,
trail-worn one raised himself from the hole where he had fallen, and
stiff, cold, racked with pain, gritted his teeth doggedly and staggered
on a few feet more. "Klondike or bust"--the fanatic of the trail, crazed
with the gold-lust, performed mad feats of endurance, till nature
rebelled, and raving and howling, he was carried away to die.

"'Member Joe?" some one would say, as a pack-horse came down the trail
with, strapped on it, a dead, rigid shape. "Joe used to be plumb-full of
fun; always joshin' or takin' some guy off; well--that's Joe."

Two weary, woe-begone men were pulling a hand-sleigh down from the
summit. On it was lashed a man. He was in a high fever, raving,
delirious. Half-crazed with suffering themselves, his partners plodded
on unheedingly. I recognised in them the Bank clerk and the Professor,
and I hailed them. From black hollows their eyes stared at me
unrememberingly, and I saw how emaciated were their faces.

"Spinal meningitis," they said laconically, and they were taking him
down to the hospital. I took a look and saw in that mask of terror and
agony the familiar face of the Wood-carver.

He gazed at me eagerly, wildly: "I'm rich," he cried, "rich. I've found
it--the gold--in millions, millions. Now I'm going outside to spend it.
No more cold and suffering and poverty. I'm going down there to _live_,
thank God, to live."

Poor Globstock! He died down there. He was buried in a nameless grave.
To this day I fancy his old mother waits for his return. He was her sole
support, the one thing she lived for, a good, gentle son, a man of sweet
simplicity and loving kindness. Yet he lies under the shadow of those
hard-visaged mountains in a nameless grave.

The trail must have its tribute.

CHAPTER VII

It was at Balsam City, and things were going badly. Marks and Bullhammer
had formed a partnership with