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Swede luck had guided their shaft onto the richest pay-streak in seven districts, and Swede luck now led us to the Lund boys, curled up in the drifted snow beside their dogs; but it was the level head and cool judgment of a woman that steered us home in the grey whirl of the dawn.

During the deathly weariness of that night I saw past the calloused hide of that woman and sighted the splendid courage cached away beneath her bitter oratory and hosstyle syllogisms. “There’s a story there,” thinks I, “an’ maybe a man moved in it–though I can’t imagine her softened by much affection.” It pleased some guy to state that woman’s the cause of all our troubles, but I figger they’re like whisky–all good, though some a heap better’n others, of course, and when a frail, little, ninety pound woman gets to bucking and acting bad, there’s generally a two hundred pound man hid out in the brush that put the burr under the saddle.

During the next three days she dressed the wounds of them Scow-weegians and nursed them as tender as a mother.

The wind hadn’t died away till along came the “Flying Dutchman” from Dugan’s, twenty miles up, floatin’ on the skirts of the blizzard.

“Hello, fellers. Howdy, Annie. What’s the matter here?” says he. “We had a woman at Dugan’s too–purty as a picture; different from the Nome bunch–real sort of a lady.”

“Who is she?” says I, “an’ what’s she doin’ out here on the trail?”

“Dunno, but she’s all right; come clean from Dawson with a dog team; says she’s looking for her mother.”

I heard a pan clatter on the floor where Annie was washing dishes, and her face went a sickly grey. She leaned across, gripping the table and straining to ask something, but the words wouldn’t come, while “Dutch” continues:

“Somethin’ strange about it, I think. She says her ma’s over in the Golden Gate district, workin’ a rich mine. Of course we all laughed at her, and said there wasn’t a woman in the whole layout, ‘ceptin’ some folks might misconstrue Annie here into a kind of a female. She stuck to it though, much as to say we was liars. She’s comin’ on–what’s the matter, Annie–you ain’t sore at me effeminatin’ you by the gentle name of female, are you?”

She had come to him, and gripped his shoulder, till her long, bony fingers buried themselves in his mackinaw. Her mouth was twitching, and she hadn’t got shed of that “first-aid-to-the-injured” look.

“What name? What name, Dutch? What name?” She shook him like a rat.

“Bradshaw–but you needn’t run your nails through and clinch ’em. Ow! Le’go my white meat. You act like she was your long lost baby. What d’ye think of that idea, fellers? Ain’t that a pleasin’ conceit? Annie Black, and a baby. Ha! Ha! that’s a hit. Annie and a daughter. A cow-thief and a calla-lily.”

“Dutch,” says I, “you ain’t a-goin’ to make it through to Lane’s Landing if you don’t pull your freight,” and I drags the darn fool out and starts him off.

When I came in she was huddled onto a goods box, shaking and sobbing like any woman, while the boys sat around and champed their bits and stomped.

“Take me away, Billy,” she says. “For God’s sake take me away before she sees me.” She slid down to the floor and cried something awful. Gents, that was sure the real distress, nothing soft and sloppy, but hard, wrenchy, deep ones, like you hear at a melodrayma. ‘Twas only back in ’99 that I seen an awful crying match, though both of the ladies had been drinking, so I felt like I was useder to emotion than the balance of the boys, and it was up to me to take a holt.