Frona felt vaguely disturbed by this great throbbing rush of gold-mad men, and the old scene with its clustering associations seemed blotted out by these toiling aliens.  Even the old landmarks appeared strangely unfamiliar.  It was the same, yet not the same.  Here, on the grassy flat, where she had played as a child and shrunk back at the sound of her voice echoing from glacier to glacier, ten thousand men tramped ceaselessly up and down, grinding the tender herbage into the soil and mocking the stony silence.  And just up the trail were ten thousand men who had passed by, and over the Chilcoot were ten thousand more.  And behind, all down the island-studded Alaskan coast, even to the Horn, were yet ten thousand more, harnessers of wind and steam, hasteners from the ends of the earth.  The Dyea River as of old roared turbulently down to the sea; but its ancient banks were gored by the feet of many men, and these men labored in surging rows at the dripping tow-lines, and the deep-laden boats followed them as they fought their upward way.  And the will of man strove with the will of the water, and the men laughed at the old Dyea River and gored its banks deeper for the men who were to follow.

The doorway of the store, through which she had once run out and in, and where she had looked with awe at the unusual sight of a stray trapper or fur-trader, was now packed with a clamorous throng of men.  Where of old one letter waiting a claimant was a thing of wonder, she now saw, by peering through the window, the mail heaped up from floor to ceiling.  And it was for this mail the men were clamoring so insistently.  Before the store, by the scales, was another crowd.  An Indian threw his pack upon the scales, the white owner jotted down the weight in a note-book, and another pack was thrown on.  Each pack was in the straps, ready for the packer’s back and the precarious journey over the Chilcoot.  Frona edged in closer.  She was interested in freights.  She remembered in her day when the solitary prospector or trader had his outfit packed over for six cents,—­one hundred and twenty dollars a ton.

The tenderfoot who was weighing up consulted his guide-book.  “Eight cents,” he said to the Indian.  Whereupon the Indians laughed scornfully and chorused, “Forty cents!” A pained expression came into his face, and he looked about him anxiously.  The sympathetic light in Frona’s eyes caught him, and he regarded her with intent blankness.  In reality he was busy reducing a three-ton outfit to terms of cash at forty dollars per hundred-weight.  “Twenty-four hundred dollars for thirty miles!” he cried.  “What can I do?”

Frona shrugged her shoulders.  “You’d better pay them the forty cents,” she advised, “else they will take off their straps.”

The man thanked her, but instead of taking heed went on with his haggling.  One of the Indians stepped up and proceeded to unfasten his pack-straps.  The tenderfoot wavered, but just as he was about to give in, the packers jumped the price on him to forty-five cents.  He smiled after a sickly fashion, and nodded his head in token of surrender.  But another Indian joined the group and began whispering excitedly.  A cheer went up, and before the man could realize it they had jerked off their straps and departed, spreading the news as they went that freight to Lake Linderman was fifty cents.