Connie Morgan in Alaska

s, the chill of the thin, keen air, and the mystic play of the aurora never failed to cast their magic spell over the heart of t

ail from Ten Bow as he had many times taken other trails, and from the moment the dogs st

agle way an git holt of some mo' dogs an' a new outfit, an' me'be take on a pa'dner an' make a try fo' the Lillimuit." Mile after mile he covered, t

orld lay veiled in the half-light of mystery. But his mind was not upon the wild beauty of his surroundings. His heart was heavy, and a strange sense of loneliness lay like a load upon his breast. For, not until he fo

my poke right now-but the boy's claim! Gee Whiz! Fust an' last it ort to clean up a million! But, 'taint leavin'

uit yo' foolin'! I'm talki

ver, Waseche Bill halted for breakfast, fed and rested h

ukon. As they disappeared in the distance bearing Connie Morgan on the trai

lad's but a wee lad; an' the mon done what few men w'd done when ut come to the test. But, f

much as the ither needs the ain. 'Tis the talk o' the camp that ne'er a nicht sin' Ten Bow started has Waseche darkened the doo

oo, had learned to love the great White Country, but this day he had eyes

he flying sled shot along hillsides and through long stretches of stunted tim

rs winked coldly upon the broad surface of the frozen river whose snow reefs and dr

ingly up the river. The old lead dog was several hundred yards in advance of the team, and cut off from sight by the high-piled drifts; so that when Connie reache

arly piled up with the suddenness of their stop. The boy listened breathlessly and again it sounded-the long-drawn howl he knew so well. "Why has Boris left the trail," wondered the boy. "Had Waseche met with an accident and camped? Were the feet of his dogs sore? Was he hurt?" Connie glanced at his own two dogs, Mutt and Slasher, who, unharnessed, had followed in his wake. They, too, heard the call of their leader and had crouched in the snow, gazing backward. Quickly he swung the sled dogs and dashed back at a gallop. Passing the point where the Ten Bow trail slanted into the hills, he urged the dogs to greater effort. If something

harp, joyful bark, the old dog leaped out upon the trail and the wolf-dogs followed. A mile slipped past-two miles-and no sign of Waseche! The boy

d for that point. Unconsciously, Scotty McDougall had strengthened the conviction when he told the boy he should overtake his partne

d to start him down the river. But the old dog refused to lead and continued to make short, whimpering dashes in the opposite direction. At last, the

, as they swept around a wide bend of the great river, the long, low, snow-covered roof of Rag

urs he had urged the dogs over the trail with only two short i

surprised to see me-and glad, too-only he'll pretend not to b

opening door, and a man in shirt sleeves eyed the approaching outfit sleepily. Connie recognized him as Black Jack Demaree, the storekeeper. And then the boy

. "Well, dog my cats! If it ain't Sam Morgan's

" asked the boy, ignor

nd the small head turned away, as, choking back the tears of disappointment, the boy stared out over the river. The man

nessed an' fed, an' then, when we git breakfas' e

he said; "I mu

t there ol' sourdough'll take care of hisself. Why, he c'n

ye needless. Mind ye, they worn't no better man than Sam Morgan, yer daddy, an' he worn't above takin' adv

e gulped down the last of his coffee and filled his pipe. "Jes' loosten up

e an undivided interest in the good claim. And, also, of how, when he woke up and found his partner gone, he had borrowed McDougall's dogs and followed. And, lastly, of the way old Boris acted a

't soon fergit-never set up yer own guess agin' a good dawgs nose. Course, ye've got to know yer dawg. Take a rankus pup that ain't got no sense yet, an' he's li'ble to contankerate off on

n' ye'll come up with him, 'cause, chances is, he'll projec' round a bit among t

mall hand; "I'll sure remember what you told me

r. It's five days to Eagle, an' while ye're sleepin' I'll jes' run through yer outf

and Black Jack sat near the stove reading a paper

sked the boy, as he

n G.M.," gri

lve hours!" exclaime

ed his eyes, dayl

ouldn't of slep' it," remark

time I've wasted.

cin' the trail means loosin' out in the long run. Eight or ten hours is a day's work on the trail-an' a good day. 'Course they's exceptions, like a stamped

e, it's good-night! Take an ol' sourdough an' he'll jes' sagashitate along, eat a plenty an' sleep a plenty an' do the like by his dawgs, an' wh

trail whenever ye like. Yer sled's packed

ry I forgot to bring my du

he man. "Wisht I had a thousan' on my books

d the boy turned to bid his friend good

Ye mightn't need it, an' then agin ye might, an' if ye do n

if they's anything on earth I hate, it's to bookkeep. So long! When ye see Waseche Bill, te