The sun burned down upon
them. Its white glare hurt their eyes, the sweat oozed out from every
pore, and they panted for breath.
"Oh, Vance, do you know . . ."
"What?" He swept the perspiration from his forehead and flung it from
him with a quick flirt of the hand.
"I wish I had eaten more breakfast."
He grunted sympathetically. They had reached the midmost ridge and
could see the open river, and beyond, quite clearly, the man and his
signal of distress. Below, pastoral in its green quiet, lay Split-up
Island. They looked up to the broad bend of the Yukon, smiling lazily,
as though it were not capable at any moment of spewing forth a flood of
death. At their feet the ice sloped down into a miniature gorge,
across which the sun cast a broad shadow.
"Go on, Tommy," Frona bade. "We're half-way over, and there's water
down there."
"It's water ye'd be thinkin' on, is it?" he snarled, "and you a-leadin'
a buddie to his death!"
"I fear you have done some great sin, Tommy," she said, with a
reproving shake of the head, "or else you would not be so afraid of
death." She sighed and picked up her end of the canoe. "Well, I
suppose it is natural. You do not know how to die--"
"No more do I want to die," he broke in fiercely.
"But there come times for all men to die,--times when to die is the
only thing to do.
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