crack, and saw half a dozen Indians
coming up with a battering-ram in the shape of a felled tree. They
approached at a wide angle, out of the line of fire.

"Shanks, it's all up. Get your six shooter--we'll have the black devils
inside in a minute."

Shanks flung down the rifle and snatched the revolver from his belt. He
bent low and took a glimpse at what was happening outside. The Indians
were but twenty yards away, and preparing to charge the half dissected
portion of the wall with their heavy ram. He tried to get a shot at them,
but could not get enough angle on to the revolver.

He saw them ambling towards him, and then, to his surprise, one of them
gasped and pitched headlong. The remainder stood, transfixed, at this
inexplicable occurrence. Before they recovered from their amazement
another man howled with pain and placed one hand over a perforated
shoulder. From afar came the sharp crack of a firearm. Shanks suddenly saw
the shooter, high up on the ice wall above them.

"Gee whiz! Lonagon--it's a big feller up on the cliff! Whoever he is, he's
got Buffalo Bill beaten to a frazzle. Did you see that? A bull's-eye at
three hundred feet, and with a six-shooter. It clean wallops the band!"

He unbarred the door, as the remaining Thlinklets went helter-skelter down
the ravine, and waved his hands to the figure above him. Lonagon turned to
the still form of D'Arcy. He lifted the latter on the camp-bed, poured
some whisky between his teeth, and saw the eyes open and shine glassily.

"How's it going?" he queried.

D'Arcy gave a weak smile.

"I'm finished with gold-digging, Pat. It's a rotten shame to have to let
go just when luck has changed ... but that's life all over.... I'm
cold--cold."

Lonagon, who recognized Death when he saw it coming, pulled some blankets
over D'Arcy and turned moodily away. His was not a sentimental nature.
Forty years in the North had killed sentiment, but he liked D'Arcy--and it
hurt. He went out to get a sight of their unknown ally.

He found him and his hungry, grizzled team coming down the ravine with
Shanks. It was Jim--but scarcely the Jim of old. For a month he had
traveled up from Dawson and among the merciless peaks, eating but half
rations and fighting storm and snow with all the power of his indomitable
will. He looked like a great gaunt spectre, with hollow cheeks and eyes
that shone in unearthly fashion. Shanks could not make head or tail of
him. His proffered hand had