Annie stood up, clutching at her throat, and stepped behind the
corner of the bunks as the door opened, framing the prettiest picture
this old range rider ever saw.

'Twas a girl, glowing pink and red where the cold had kissed her
cheeks, with yellow curlicues of hair wandering out under her yarn
cap. Her little fox-trimmed parka quit at the knees, showing the
daintiest pair of--I can't say it. Anyhow, they wasn't, they just
looked like 'em, only nicer.

She stood blinking at us, coming from the bright light outside, as
cute as a new faro box--then:

"Can you tell me where Mrs. Bradshaw lives? She's somewhere in this
district. I'm her daughter--come all the way from the States to see
her."

When she smiled I could hear the heart-strings of those ragged,
whiskered, frost-bit "mushers" bustin' like banjo strings.

"You know her, don't you?" she says, turning to me.

"Know her, Miss? Well, I should snort! There ain't a prospector on
the range that ain't proud and honoured to call her a friend.
Leastways, if there is I'll bust his block," and I cast the bad eye
on the boys to wise 'em up.

"Ain't I right, Joe?"

"Betcher dam life," says Joe, sort of over-stepping the conventions.