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Of course the story had gone broadcast, hours before, for other eyes than his had watched the man and woman take the outbound trail that afternoon, so when he came stumbling into Hopper’s place a sudden silence fell. He went directly to the bar and called for straight “hootch,” to drive the cold from his bones, but, although it warmed his flesh, his soul remained numb and frozen. Inside him was a great aching emptiness that even Hopper’s kindly words could not reach.

“Looks like the worst night we’ve had this year,” said the proprietor. “Better have a drink with me.”

McGill’s teeth rattled on the glass when he put it to his lips. “She’s gone!” he whispered, staring across the bar, “and I didn’t kill him. I couldn’t–on her account.”

Hopper nodded. “I’m awful sorry it came out this way, Dan.”

McGill shivered and drew his head down between his gaunt shoulders. “Talk to me, will you?” he begged. “I’m hit hard.”

His friend did as he was directed, but a few minutes later in the midst of his words the big man interrupted:

“There wasn’t room for all of us here,” he declared, fiercely. “I told her that, but she wanted him worse than her own life, so I had to give in.”

They were still talking at midnight, after all but a few loiterers had gone home, when they heard a man’s voice calling from outside. An instant later the front door burst open and a figure appeared; it was Cochrane, the trader from down-river.

“Here! Give me a hand!” he bellowed through his ice-burdened beard, then plunged back into the hurricane to reappear with a woman in his arms.

“I thought I’d never make it,” he declared. “There’s a man in the sled, too. Get some ‘hootch’ and send for a doctor, quick.”

McGill uttered a cry, while the hand with which he gripped the bar went white at his pressure. “Where did you get them?” he questioned.

“Ten miles below,” said Cochrane. “I was camped for the night when their dogs picked up my scent. They were half dead when they got to me, and he was in mighty bad shape, so I came through. I’ve been five hours on the road.”

Two men brought in Barclay, at which McGill flung out a long arm and cried in a loud voice, “Is that man dead?”

No one answered, so he strode forward, only to have the weakened traveler raise his head and say:

“No, I’m not dead, McGill. But we had to come back.”

The wife was calling to her husband, wretchedly: “Don’t do it, Dan. We couldn’t help it. We’ll go to-morrow. We’ll go. Please don’t! We’ll go.”

The onlookers, knowing something of the tragedy, drew back, watching McGill, who still stared into the face of the man who had robbed him of everything.

“Do you remember what I told you?” he questioned, inflexibly.

Barclay nodded, and the woman shrilled again:

“Don’t let him do it, men. Don’t! “

“There ain’t room for us here,” went on McGill.

“Only to-night,” supplicated his wife, the frost-bitten spots in her cheeks no more pallid than the rest of her countenance. “He can’t go. Don’t you see he isn’t able? Wait, Dan; I’ll go if you want me to”–she struggled forward. “I’ll go, but he’ll die if you send him out.”

“It’s always him, ain’t it?” said the miner, slowly. “You seem to want him pretty bad, Alice. Well, you can have him. And you can stay, both of you.” He drew his cap down over his grizzled hair and turned toward the door, but Hopper saw the light in his eye and intercepted him.

“I’ll go home with you, Dan,” said he.

“I ain’t going home.”

“You mean–“

“There ain’t room enough in Ophir for Barclay and me and the woman.”

“My God, man, listen to that blizzard! It’s suicide!”

But McGill only repeated, dully: “There ain’t room, Hopper. There ain’t room!” and with the gait of an old man shambled to the door. When he opened it the storm shrieked in glee and rushed in, wrapping him up to the middle in its embrace. He closed the door behind him, then went stumbling off into the night, and as he crept blindly forth upon the frozen bosom of the river the bellowing wind wiped out his footprints an arm’s-length at his back.