Shanks flung down the rifle and snatched the revolver from his belt. He bent low and took a glimpse at what was happening outside. The Indians were but twenty yards away, and preparing to charge the half dissected portion of the wall with their heavy ram. He tried to get a shot at them, but could not get enough angle on to the revolver. He saw them ambling towards him, and then, to his surprise, one of them gasped and pitched headlong. The remainder stood, transfixed, at this inexplicable occurrence. Before they recovered from their amazement another man howled with pain and placed one hand over a perforated shoulder. From afar came the sharp crack of a firearm. Shanks suddenly saw the shooter, high up on the ice wall above them. "Gee whiz! Lonagon--it's a big feller up on the cliff! Whoever he is, he's got Buffalo Bill beaten to a frazzle. Did you see that? A bull's-eye at three hundred feet, and with a six-shooter. It clean wallops the band!" He unbarred the door, as the remaining Thlinklets went helter-skelter down the ravine, and waved his hands to the figure above him. Lonagon turned to the still form of D'Arcy. He lifted the latter on the camp-bed, poured some whisky between his teeth, and saw the eyes open and shine glassily. "How's it going?" he queried. D'Arcy gave a weak smile. "I'm finished with gold-digging, Pat. It's a rotten shame to have to let go just when luck has changed ... but that's life all over.... I'm cold--cold." Lonagon, who recognized Death when he saw it coming, pulled some blankets over D'Arcy and turned moodily away. His was not a sentimental nature. Forty years in the North had killed sentiment, but he liked D'Arcy--and it hurt. He went out to get a sight of their unknown ally. He found him and his hungry, grizzled team coming down the ravine with Shanks. It was Jim--but scarcely the Jim of old. For a month he had traveled up from Dawson and among the merciless peaks, eating but half rations and fighting storm and snow with all the power of his indomitable will. He looked like a great gaunt spectre, with hollow cheeks and eyes that shone in unearthly fashion. Shanks could not make head or tail of him. His proffered hand had been neglected and his few questions went unanswered. He was pleased when Lonagon turned up, for he had a deadly fear of madmen. "What cheer, stranger!" cried Lonagon. "You turned up in the nick of time." Jim stopped the sled and regarded him fixedly. "Are you--Lonagon?" he asked in a husky voice. "Sure!" "Then where's D'Arcy? I want D'Arcy. D'ye git that? It's D'Arcy I'm after." Lonagon looked at Shanks. Shanks tapped his forehead significantly to indicate that in his opinion the stranger had left the major portion of his senses out on the trail, and wasn't safe company. "So--you want D'Arcy?" quavered Lonagon. "I said so." "Wal, you're only jest in time. Come right in and see for yourself." Jim reeled across to the cabin and hesitated on the threshold.