The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1941-01-10

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indian school.
Aboard ship. she Is annoyed by Eric tths
''It was" / agreed. .It was all
rather wonderful. But It made me
feel like q deserter. And it was
too good to last Just when / was
telling myself / had about every
thing one could ask for, got a let
ter from Alaska, nearly seven
months DID,"
Telling you what?" prompted the
voice at my side.
Telling me my father had been
found dead on the open TRAIL"
answered, doing my best to be casu-
al about it. He'd been found there,
frozen to death, between his Chaki-
tana claim and Trail-End Camp.
His grub bag was empty. Two Of
his dogs had died and the others
must have left him in the night. I
can't help thinking of that lonely
grave between the hills when you
talk about the uselessness Of the
sourdough."
"I'm sorry" said my companion,
with a quick note of contrition. He
stood beside me, for full minute
of silence. Where was your ia
theirs claim on the Chakitana?"
That's what I've got to find out"
I told him. "But it seems to be
somewhere along the Three-Finger
Range between the Cranberry and
Blackwater Pass. Father, you see,
was just an old-fashioned sourdough.
He was always brooding about some
final strike that was going to make
him a millionaire. And he always
felt there was a fortune in that
mine Of his, once it was opened up.
It was his secret. And he Rugged
it tight, even from me-"
''But the important point is, did
he establish his claim?"
''I'm afraid not" had to admit.
'That's one of the things I've got to
find out.
He leaned closer, as though trying
to decipher my face in the starlight.
I found myself moving away a
little. Lonely ladies, after midnight
on starlit nights at sea, needed the
feel Of something solid under their
feet.
''It was kind of you," said as
] drew my polo coat closer about
me, ito help me as you did,"
But he disregarded that valedic-
tory note.
II don't even know your name"
he reminded me.
Names, on night like that, didn't
seem to mean much. We were up
between the stars, I wanted to tell
him, where time and titles didn't
count.
''Who are your" / found myself
asking, foolishly glad because Of his
nearness.
He didn't answer me at once. And
In that moment of silence sum-
moned up courage to reach for the
forgotten flashlight. Then pressed
the button and framed his stopping
head in sudden shaft Of light.
/ gulped as the light fell on his
face. That face was strong and
bronzed and touched with a quiet
audacity that went well with his big
frame. But ] had seen it before, in
an altogether different setting. For
this was the mackintoshed man who
had stood in the rain with blonde
and blue-eyed girl in his arms be-
fore the Yukon pulled out from the
Seattle wharf He had been SO alb
sorbed in that last clasp that he al
most missed getting aboard.
The memory of that scene prompt
~ chilled and steadied me. An ice
wall as wide as the Columbia Gla-
cier seemed to drift in between us.
II don't suppose it makes much
difference" he said out of that si-
lence, "but my name is Lander, Sid
ney Lander"
mo, it doesn't make much diff
ference" heard myself saying in
an oddly thinned voice.
''Why?" he demanded, conscious
OF that remoter note.
wen probably never see each
other again. said with limping
enough effort at indifference.
sBut / think we WILL" he cor
rected with unexpected solemnity.
My hand, resting on the rail, could
feel his bigger hand close over it.
Hasn't Eric the Red done enough
Of that?" / asked in an adequately
frosted voice.
The man who called himself Sid
ney Lander promptly lifted his hand
away.
''But ! still want to know your
name he quietly reminded me. ~
think you owe me that much"
] laughed and stood silent mo-
ment.
MY names Carol Coburn." I
finally admitted. free, white, and
twenty-one, and heading back to the
icebound hills Of her BIRTH"
'Coburn?" he repeated. And his
voice impressed me as almost
startled one.
Carol Koyukuk Ccburn," / an
nounced, with the Koyulxuk usual
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