stent problem. There was gold in
the creek beds and ruby beaches, and when the sea opened, the men with
healthy sacks would sail away to where the good things of life were sold
absurdly cheap.

So, one night, Fortune helped Uri Bram harness the dogs and lash the
sled, and the twain took the winter trail south on the ice. But it was
not all south; for they left the sea east from St. Michael's, crossed the
divide, and struck the Yukon at Anvik, many hundred miles from its mouth.
Then on, into the northeast, past Koyokuk, Tanana, and Minook, till they
rounded the Great Curve at Fort Yukon, crossed and recrossed the Arctic
Circle, and headed south through the Flats. It was a weary journey, and
Fortune would have wondered why the man went with him, had not Uri told
him that he owned claims and had men working at Eagle. Eagle lay on the
edge of the line; a few miles farther on, the British flag waved over the
barracks at Fort Cudahy. Then came Dawson, Pelly, the Five Fingers,
Windy Arm, Caribou Crossing, Linderman, the Chilcoot and Dyea.

On the morning after passing Eagle, they rose early. This was their last
camp, and they were now to part. Fortune's heart was light. There was a
promise of spring in the land, and the days were growing longer. The way
was passing into Canadian territory. Liberty was at hand, the sun was
returning, and each day saw him nearer to the Great Outside. The world
was big, and he could once again paint his future in royal red. He
whistled about the breakfast and hummed snatches of light song while Uri
put the dogs in harness and packed up. But when all was ready, Fortune's
feet itching to be off, Uri pulled an unused back-log to the fire and sat
down.

"Ever hear of the Dead Horse Trail?"

He glanced up meditatively and Fortune shook his head, inwardly chafing
at the delay.

"Sometimes there are meetings under circumstances which make men
remember," Uri continued, speaking in a low voice and very slowly, "and I
met a man under such circumstances on the Dead Horse Trail. Freighting
an outfit over the White Pass in '97 broke many a man's heart, for there
was a world of reason when they gave that trail its name. The horses
died like mosquitoes in the first frost, and from Skaguay to Bennett they
rotted in heaps. They died at the Rocks, they were poisoned at the
Summit, and they starved at the Lakes; they fell off the trail, what
there was of it, or they went through it; in the rive