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Jones’s reputation as a bad gun-man went hand in hand with his name as a good gambler, and his scanty remarks invariably evoked attentive answers, so George explained: “I don’t like him Jones, and I was jus’ makin’ him over to look like a man. I’ll do it yet, too,” he flashed wrathfully at his quiet antagonist.

“‘Pears to me like he’s took a hand in the remodelling himself,” replied the gambler, “but if you’re lookin’ for something to do, here’s your chance. Windy Jim just drove in and says Barton and Kid Sullivan are adrift on the ice.”

“What’s that?” questioned eager voices, and, forgetting the recent trouble at the news, the crowd pressed forward anxiously.

“They was crossing the bay and got carried out by the off-shore gale,” explained Jones. “Windy was follerin’ ’em when the ice ahead parted and begun movin’ out. He tried to yell to ’em, but they was too far away to hear in the storm. He managed to get back to the land and follered the shore ice around. He’s over at Hunter’s cabin now, most dead, face and hands froze pretty bad.”

A torrent of questions followed and many suggestions as to the fate of the men.

“They’ll freeze before they can get ashore,” said one.

“The ice-pack’ll break up in this wind,” added another, “and if they don’t drown, they’ll freeze before the floe comes in close enough for them to land.”

From the first announcement of his friends’ peril, Captain had been thinking rapidly. His body, sore from his long trip and aching from the hug of his recent encounter, cried woefully for rest, but his voice rose calm and clear:

“We’ve got to get them off,” he said. “Who will go with me? Three is enough.”

The clamouring voices ceased, and the men wheeled at the sound, gazing incredulously at the speaker. “What!”–“In this storm?”–“You’re crazy,” many voices said.

He gazed appealingly at the faces before him. Brave and adventurous men he knew them to be, jesting with death, and tempered to perils in this land where hardship rises with the dawn, but they shook their ragged heads hopelessly.

“We must save them!” resumed Captain hotly. “Barton and I played as children together, and if there’s not a man among you who’s got the nerve to follow me–I’ll go alone by Heavens!”

In the silence of the room, he pulled the cap about his ears and, tying it snugly under his chin, drew on his huge fur mittens; then with a scornful laugh he turned toward the door.

He paused as his eye caught the swollen face of Big George. Blood had stiffened in the heavy creases of his face like rusted stringers in a ledge, while his mashed and discoloured lips protruded thickly. His hair gleamed red, and the sweat had dried upon his naked shoulders, streaked with dirt and flecked with spots of blood, yet the battered features shone with the unconquered, fearless light of a rough, strong man.

Captain strode to him with outstretched hand. “You’re a man,” he said. “You’ve got the nerve, George, and you’ll go with me, won’t you?”

“What! Me?” questioned the sailor vaguely. His wondering glance left Captain, and drifted round the circle of shamed and silent faces–then he straightened stiffly and cried: “Will I go with you? Certainly! I’ll go to —- with you.”

Ready hands harnessed the dogs, dragged from protected nooks where they sought cover from the storm which moaned and whistled round the low houses. Endless ragged folds of sleet whirled out of the north, then writhed and twisted past, vanishing into the grey veil which shrouded the landscape in a twilight gloom.

The fierce wind sank the cold into the aching flesh like a knife and stiffened the face to a whitening mask, while a fusillade of frozen ice-particles beat against the eyeballs with blinding fury.