The old couple grunted salutation and remained stolidly silent.

“But hurry with ye, girl,” turning back to Frona.  “Me steamer starts by mid-day, an’ it’s little I’ll see iv ye at the best.  An’ likewise there’s Andy an’ the breakfast pipin’ hot, both iv them.”

CHAPTER III

Frona waved her hand to Andy and swung out on the trail.  Fastened tightly to her back were her camera and a small travelling satchel.  In addition, she carried for alpenstock the willow pole of Neepoosa.  Her dress was of the mountaineering sort, short-skirted and scant, allowing the greatest play with the least material, and withal gray of color and modest.

Her outfit, on the backs of a dozen Indians and in charge of Del Bishop, had got under way hours before.  The previous day, on her return with Matt McCarthy from the Siwash camp, she had found Del Bishop at the store waiting her.  His business was quickly transacted, for the proposition he made was terse and to the point.  She was going into the country.  He was intending to go in.  She would need somebody.  If she had not picked any one yet, why he was just the man.  He had forgotten to tell her the day he took her ashore that he had been in the country years before and knew all about it.  True, he hated the water, and it was mainly a water journey; but he was not afraid of it.  He was afraid of nothing.  Further, he would fight for her at the drop of the hat.  As for pay, when they got to Dawson, a good word from her to Jacob Welse, and a year’s outfit would be his.  No, no; no grub-stake about it, no strings on him!  He would pay for the outfit later on when his sack was dusted.  What did she think about it, anyway?  And Frona did think about it, for ere she had finished breakfast he was out hustling the packers together.

She found herself making better speed than the majority of her fellows, who were heavily laden and had to rest their packs every few hundred yards.  Yet she found herself hard put to keep the pace of a bunch of Scandinavians ahead of her.  They were huge strapping blond-haired giants, each striding along with a hundred pounds on his back, and all harnessed to a go-cart which carried fully six hundred more.  Their faces were as laughing suns, and the joy of life was in them.  The toil seemed child’s play and slipped from them lightly.  They joked with one another, and with the passers-by, in a meaningless tongue, and their great chests rumbled with cavern-echoing laughs.  Men stood aside for them, and looked after them enviously; for they took the rises of the trail on the run, and rattled down the counter slopes, and ground the iron-rimmed wheels harshly over the rocks.  Plunging through a dark stretch of woods, they came out upon the river at the ford.  A drowned man lay on his back on the sand-bar, staring upward, unblinking, at the sun.  A man, in irritated tones, was questioning over and over, “Where’s