"So have I." It was Lucky Banks who spoke. "So have I. And Weatherbee was
always ready to stand by a poor devil in a tight place. When the frost got
me"--he held up a crippled and withered hand--"it was Dave Weatherbee who
pulled me through. We were mushing it on the same stampede from Fairbanks
to Ruby Creek, and he never had seen me before. It had come to the last
day, and we were fighting it out in the teeth of a blizzard. You all know
what that means. In the end we just kept the trail, following the
hummocks. Sometimes it was a pack under a drift, or maybe a sled; and
sometimes it was a hand reaching up through the snow, frozen stiff. Then
it came my turn, and I lay down in my tracks. But Weatherbee stopped to
work over me. He wouldn't go on. He said if I was determined to stay in
that cemet'ry, I could count on his company. And when he got me on my
feet, he just started 'Dixie,' nice and lively, and the next I knew he had
me all wound up and set going again, good as new."

His laugh, like the treble notes of the Arctic wind, gave an edge to the
story.

Presently Foster said: "That was Weatherbee; I never knew another such
man. Always effacing himself when it came to a choice; always ready to
share a good thing. Why, he made some of his friends rich, and yet in the
end, after seven years of it, seven years of struggle of the worst kind,
what did he have to show?"

"Nothing, Foster; nothing but seven feet of earth up there on the edge of
the wilderness." Tisdale's voice vibrated gently; an emotion like the
surface stir of shaken depths crossed his face. "And a tract of unimproved
desert down here in eastern Washington," he added.

"And Mrs. Weatherbee," supplemented Feversham quickly. "You mustn't forget