D’ ye recollect the time she shot the Moosehorn Rapids to pull you and me off that rock, the bullets whipping the water like hailstones?—and the time of the famine at Nuklukyeto?3—or when she raced the ice-run to bring the news? Yes, she’s been a good wife to me, better’n that other one. Did n’t know I’d been there? Never told you, eh? Well, I tried it once, down in the States. That’s why I’m here. Been raised together, too. I came away to give her a chance for divorce. She got it.

“But that’s got nothing to do with Ruth. I had thought of cleaning up and pulling for the Outside next year,—her and I,—but it’s too late. Do n’t send her back to her people, Kid. It’s beastly hard for a woman to go back. Think of it!—nearly four years on our bacon and beans and flour and dried fruit, and then to go back to her fish and cariboo. It’s not good for her to have tried our ways, to come to know they ’re better ’n her people’s, and then return to them. Take care of her, Kid,—why do n’t you,—but no, you always fought shy of them,—and you never told me why you came to this country. Be kind to her, and send her back to the States as soon as you can. But fix it so as she can come back,—liable to get homesick, you know.

“And the youngster—it’s drawn us closer, Kid. I only hope it is a boy. Think of it!—flesh of my flesh, Kid. He must n’t stop in this country. And if it’s a girl, why she can ’t. Sell my furs; they’ll fetch at least five thousand, and I ’ve got as much more with the company. And handle my interests with yours. I think that bench claim will show up. See that he gets a good schooling; and Kid, above all, do n’t let him come back. This country was not made for white men.

“I’m a gone man, Kid. Three or four sleeps at the best. You ’ve got to go on. You must go on! Remember, it’s my wife, it’s my boy,—O God! I hope it’s a boy! You can’t stay by me,—and I charge you, a dying man, to pull on.”

“Give me three days,” pleaded Malemute Kid. “You may change for the better; something may turn up.”

“No.”

“Just three days.”

“You must pull on.”

“Two days.”

“It’s my wife and my boy, Kid. You would not ask it.”

“One day.”

“No, no! I charge”—

“Only one day. We can shave it through on the grub, and I might knock over a moose.”

“No,—all right; one day, but not a minute more. And Kid, do n’t—do n’t leave me to face it alone.