Take care of her, Kid,
why don't you--but no, you always fought shy of them--and you never
told me why you came to this country. Be kind to her, and send her back
to the States as soon as you can. But fix it so she can come
back--liable to get homesick, you know.

'And the youngster--it's drawn us closer, Kid. I only hope it is a boy.
Think of it!--flesh of my flesh, Kid. He mustn't stop in this country.
And if it's a girl, why, she can't. Sell my furs; they'll fetch at
least five thousand, and I've got as much more with the company. And
handle my interests with yours. I think that bench claim will show up.
See that he gets a good schooling; and Kid, above all, don't let him
come back. This country was not made for white men.

'I'm a gone man, Kid. Three or four sleeps at the best. You've got to
go on. You must go on! Remember, it's my wife, it's my boy--O God! I
hope it's a boy! You can't stay by me--and I charge you, a dying man,
to pull on.'

'Give me three days,' pleaded Malemute Kid. 'You may change for the
better; something may turn up.'

'No.'

'Just three days.'

'You must pull on.'

'Two days.'

'It's my wife and my boy, Kid. You would not ask it.'

'One day.'

'No, no! I charge--'

'Only one day. We can shave it through on the grub, and I might knock
over a moose.'

'No--all right; one day, but not a minute more. And, Kid, don't--don't
leave me to face it alone. Just a shot, one pull on the trigger. You
understand. Think of it! Think of it! Flesh of my flesh, and I'll never
live to see him!

'Send Ruth here. I want to say good-by and tell her that she must think
of the boy and not wait till I'm dead. She might refuse to go with you
if I didn't. Goodby, old man; good-by.

'Kid! I say--a--sink a hole above the pup, next to the slide. I panned
out forty cents on my shovel there.

'And, Kid!' He stooped lower to catch the last faint words, the dying
man's surrender of his pride. 'I'm sorry--for--you know--Carmen.'
Leaving the girl crying softly over her man, Malemute Kid slipped into
his parka and snowshoes, tucked his rifle under his arm, and crept away
into the forest. He was no tyro in the stern sorrows of the Northland,
but never had he faced so stiff a problem as this. In the abstract, it
was a plain, mathematical proposition--three possible lives as against
one doomed one. But now he hesitated. For five years, shoulder to
shoulder, on the rivers and trails, in the camps and mines, faci