Page:The trail of the golden horn.djvu/14

10 in the Yukon when winter gripped the land in its icy embrace.

Hugo hated the river, and always kept as far away as possible. To him it was a treacherous demon, and the great dark breathing-places seemed like yawning mouths ever open for new victims. That curling vapour appeared more sinister now than ever. He glanced again at the lonely cabin. Why was there no smoke rising above its squat roof? Had Bill Haines slipped while drawing water? Such a thing was not unlikely. But what about his wife? Surely she would keep the fire burning for the sake of herself and child. But had she gone, too, in attempting to rescue her husband?

For a few minutes Hugo stood there, his great form drawn to its full height. His long beard, covered with frost, swept his breast. His keen eyes peered out from beneath the big fur cap drawn well down over ears and forehead. He resembled a patriarch of Hebrew days who had stepped suddenly out upon one of nature’s mighty stages. The dark, sombre trees formed a fitting background to the lonely figure, while the valley below and the limitless region beyond made a magnificent audience-chamber. But none witnessed the silent form upon the hill save, perhaps, a few shy, furry creatures of the wild, and ghosts of miners, prospectors, trappers and Indians, who once roamed the land and made the Yukon River their chief highway of travel.

Hugo, however, thought nothing of all this. His mind was agitated by conflicting thoughts. He longed to be off and away upon the trail, headed for the log abode of which he alone knew. But that smokeless cabin down by the river fascinated him.