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212 The lights had disappeared. "Halloo the house, there!" No answer. "Halloo the house!" louder and longer than before. A panel in the side of the nearest cabin opened slowly and cautiously, and after time enough had elapsed to allow of a critical examination of the party outside, a voice demanded: "Who you, John? What you wantee catchee here?" It was a Chinese wood-cutters' camp, and there was not a white man about the place.

The Johns told me that there was a camp of white men on the other side of the ravine I had just crossed, and perhaps half a mile farther up the mountain; they thought it might be "Camp Numble 10." Half an hour's floundering through the snow brought me back to the point whence I had sighted the lights, and soon after one I was at the white men's camp. I roused the inmates more easily here, as they were indulging in a little friendly game of "pitch," or "draw"—that being Saturday night—and had not retired to their virtuous bunks. No, that was not Camp No. 10, my informer told me; and, what was worse, Camp No. 10 was right over the summit of the mountain, a mile and a half away. I could go around by the trail three miles, or ride up to the railroad-track, tie my horse, and walk through the snow-sheds, a little more than a mile—it was contrary to the rules to take an animal inside the sheds.

I started up toward the track, and reached it at two The night was now clear and still; not the slightest noise could be heard, and the silence was something awful and oppressive. The last man and