had always done, when he read an account of the marriage in a
Portland paper. Then he called in a friend to take charge of his mine
and departed up the Yukon behind his dogs. He held to the Salt Water
trail till White River was reached, into which he turned. Five days
later he came upon a hunting camp of the White River Indians. In the
evening there was a feast, and he sat in honour beside the chief; and
next morning he headed his dogs back toward the Yukon. But he no longer
travelled alone. A young squaw fed his dogs for him that night and
helped to pitch camp. She had been mauled by a bear in her childhood and
suffered from a slight limp. Her name was Lashka, and she was diffident
at first with the strange white man that had come out of the Unknown,
married her with scarcely a look or word, and now was carrying her back
with him into the Unknown.

But Lashka's was better fortune than falls to most Indian girls that mate
with white men in the Northland. No sooner was Dawson reached than the
barbaric marriage that had joined them was re-solemnized, in the white
man's fashion, before a priest. From Dawson, which to her was all a
marvel and a dream, she was taken directly to the Bonanza claim and
installed in the square-hewed cabin on the hill.

The nine days' wonder that followed arose not so much out of the fact of
the squaw whom Lawrence Pentfield had taken to bed and board as out of
the ceremony that had legalized the tie. The properly sanctioned
marriage was the one thing that passed the community's comprehension. But
no one bothered Pentfield about it. So long as a man's vagaries did no
special hurt to the community, the community let the man alone, nor was
Pentfield barred from the cabins of men who possessed white wives. The
marriage ceremony removed him from the status of squaw-man and placed him
beyond moral reproach, though there were men that challenged his taste
where women were concerned.

No more letters arrived from the outside. Six sledloads of mails had
been lost at the Big Salmon. Besides, Pentfield knew that Corry and his
bride must by that time have started in over the trail. They were even
then on their honeymoon trip--the honeymoon trip he had dreamed of for
himself through two dreary years. His lip curled with bitterness at the
thought; but beyond being kinder to Lashka he gave no sign.

March had passed and April was nearing its end, when, one spring morning,
Lashka asked perm