The bodily stiffness and soreness, consequent upon their recent bout, was
now well-nigh forgotten, though occasionally they laughingly rallied each
other as the sharp air stung their bruised faces. They were just
surmounting the summit of a long, steep grade in the trail.

Said Redmond dubiously: "See here; look! I'm darned if I like getting
the freedom of the City of Cow Run sportin' such a pretty mug as this!
How many more miles to this giddy burg, old thing?"

Yorke grinned unfeelingly. "Hard on nine miles to go yet. We're about
half way. _Isch ga bibble_! . . . open your ditty-box and sing! you
blooming whip-poor-will."

"A werry heart goes all the way,
But a sad one tires in a mile a';
A--"

The old lilt died on his lips. With a startled oath he reined in sharply
and, shielding his eyes from the sun-glare, remained staring straight in
front of him. They had just topped the crest of the rise. The eastward
slope showed a low-lying, undulating stretch of snow-bound country,
sparsely dotted with clumps of poplar and alder growth, through which the
trail wound snake-like into the fainter distance. Southwards, below the
rolling, shelving benches, lay the river, a steaming black line, twisting
interminably between frosty, bush-fringed banks.

No less startled than his companion, Redmond pulled up also and stared
with him. Not far distant on the trail ahead of them they beheld a dark,
ominous-looking mass, vividly conspicuous against the snow. Suddenly the