But it was not all south; for they left the sea east from St.
Michael's, crossed the divide, and struck the Yukon at Anvik, many hundred miles from its mouth.Then on, into the northeast, past Koyokuk, Tanana, and Minook, till they rounded the Great Curve at Fort Yukon, crossed and recrossed the Arctic Circle, and headed south through the Flats.It was a weary journey, and Fortune would have wondered why the man went with him, had not Uri told him that he owned claims and had men working at Eagle.Eagle lay on the edge of the line; a few miles farther on, the British flag waved over the barracks at Fort Cudahy.Then came Dawson, Pelly, the Five Fingers, Windy Arm, Caribou Crossing, Linderman, the Chilcoot and Dyea.
On the morning after passing Eagle, they rose early.This was their last camp, and they were now to part.Fortune's heart was light.There was a promise of spring in the land, and the days were growing longer.The way was passing into Canadian territory.
Liberty was at hand, the sun was returning, and each day saw him nearer to the Great Outside.The world was big, and he could once again paint his future in royal red.He whistled about the breakfast and hummed snatches of light song while Uri put the dogs in harness and packed up.But when all was ready, Fortune's feet itching to be off, Uri pulled an unused back-log to the fire and sat down.
"Ever hear of the Dead Horse Trail?"
He glanced up meditatively and Fortune shook his head, inwardly chafing at the delay.
"Sometimes there are meetings under circumstances which make men remember," Uri continued, speaking in a low voice and very slowly, "and I met a man under such circumstances on the Dead Horse Trail.
Freighting an outfit over the White Pass in '97 broke many a man's heart, for there was a world of reason when they gave that trail its name.The horses died like mosquitoes in the first frost, and from Skaguay to Bennett they rotted in heaps.They died at the Rocks, they were poisoned at the Summit, and they starved at the Lakes; they fell off the trail, what there was of it, or they went through it; in the river they drowned under their loads, or were smashed to pieces against the boulders; they snapped their legs in the crevices and broke their backs falling backwards with their packs; in the sloughs they sank from sight or smothered in the slime, and they were disembowelled in the bogs where the corduroy logs turned end up in the mud; men shot them, worked them to death, and when they were gone, went back to the beach and bought more.Some did not bother to shoot them,--stripping the saddles off and the shoes and leaving them where they fell.Their hearts turned to stone--those which did not break--and they became beasts, the men on Dead Horse Trail.
