That day, when she fed the dogs, she cast fearful, nervous glances behind her into the gloom. And, that night she took Skookum with her into the cabin. That night, also she cleaned and oiled her rifle, filled its magazine with cartridges, and stood it in the corner nearest her bunk. Skookum was restless. Never before had he slept in a cabin, and all night long he dozed fitfully, awaking at short intervals with a start, to walk about the room. The click of his toe nails upon the floor awoke the girl, and each time she stirred in her bed the great dog would look toward her--two eyes that glowed in the dark. And, with a shudder she would turn her face to the wall--but not to sleep. Cold fear gripped her heart. She would hit out for Nolan. Dalzene would never dare to show his face in Nolan. Tomorrow she would harness her dogs and hit the trail. But--she had no toboggan, and in the deep loose snow, the sled would be useless. No, she must stay here on Myrtle until the thaw came and hardened the surface of the snow. If she couldn’t travel, Dalzene couldn’t travel either. But--Dalzene had a toboggan! Pete Enright had told her of how the man had shifted to a toboggan and given them the slip below Bettles! She must go--somewhere. Dalzene would be out of jail. His time should have expired sometime last fall. He had had six months in which to nurse his hate, and to plot and plan, and three or four months since in which to carry out his plans. Dalzene never forgets! Even now he might be on Myrtle, trailing through the snow with a toboggan. There was the rifle. If Dalzene came she would kill him. Or, kill herself. Ah, that is it--no more darkness, no more gleaming eyes. No more fighting the dull pain that seemed weighting--always weighting her down. One quick flash, and then--oblivion. Sleep. Forever and forever--sleep. No eyes staring, glaring at her from the outer dark. No more fear of Dalzene. Myrtle is dead. Coldfoot is dead. Everything--everything is dead. They would bury her beside her father and her mother--the men of Nolan, when they found her in the spring--and she could sleep. And _he_ would never know. Toiling, delving, far in the high North for his red gold he would never know that she wanted him. That for weeks and for months her soul had been calling, calling to his soul. He would never know that her heart cried out to him in the bright summer midnight, and in the darkness of the eternal winter night. Had he forgotten her? Some day he would find his red gold, and then--But, here on Myrtle she would be sleeping the long, long sleep.