is sounded. Mason was terribly crushed. The most cursory
examination revealed it.

His right arm, leg, and back were broken; his limbs were
paralyzed from the hips; and the likelihood of internal injuries
was large. An occasional moan was his only sign of life.

No hope; nothing to be done. The pitiless night crept slowly
by--Ruth's portion, the despairing stoicism of her race, and
Malemute Kid adding new lines to his face of bronze.

In fact, Mason suffered least of all, for he spent his time in
eastern Tennessee, in the Great Smoky Mountains, living over the
scenes of his childhood. And most pathetic was the melody of his
long-forgotten Southern vernacular, as he raved of swimming holes
and coon hunts and watermelon raids. It was as Greek to Ruth, but
the Kid understood and felt--felt as only one can feel who has
been shut out for years from all that civilization means.

Morning brought consciousness to the stricken man, and Malemute
Kid bent closer to catch his whispers.

'You remember when we foregathered on the Tanana, four years come
next ice run? I didn't care so much for her then. It was more
like she was pretty, and there was a smack of excitement about
it, I think. But d'ye know, I've come to think a heap of her.
She's been a good wife to me, always at my shoulder in the pinch.
And when it comes to trading, you know there isn't her equal.
D'ye recollect the time she shot the Moosehorn Rapids to pull you
and me off that rock, the bullets whipping the water like