Slowly her hand felt along the wall, nearer and nearer the corner, closer and closer it drew to the black barrel of the rifle. Her groping fingers reached it, and with a short, quick cry she drew them away from the icy coldness of its touch. In the darkness Skookum bounded to her side, and his warm red tongue brushed her cheek. Life! Splendid, pulsing life was in the two great bounds that had carried him to her side! Slowly the girl closed her eyes. _He_, too, was alive. _He_ would never run away from it all. _He_ would never seek the long, long sleep. He would live! Live and beat down the thing that was conquering him! For eight years alone he had been fighting the North. And he would win! He would laugh at the North, even as he gouged the red gold from its bosom! And she, too, would laugh at the North! With startling distinctness, the image of _Huloimee Tilakum_ rose before her. Tall and straight, with the lithe easy movement of rugged strength he stood before her. He was smiling, the illusive, half-smile that barely curved his lips, but radiated a little fan of wrinkles from the corners of his eyes. And those eyes! The blue-grey eyes were looking directly into hers--intense, piercing--devouring. Straight into her heart they looked, and all unconsciously they were telling her what his lips had never told! Lou Gordon sat bolt upright and her two arms flew about Skookum’s great neck. “I’m coming! I’m coming! _Huloimee Tilakum!_ In your eyes I have seen it--_love_! Oh, I am coming to you--my love. Into the far North--beyond the timber--beyond men--we two!” She was sobbing aloud, and the words were pouring from her lips into the great lead dog’s ears. “We will go to him, Skookum. Just as soon as the thaw makes travel possible. We will hunt for him on the Colville! And we will find him. And together we will find his red gold! Myrtle is dead, but we are alive, Skookum--alive! And way in the white land beyond the mountains we will live, and love, and find gold--red gold. In his eyes I have read it! Not once but many times! But--I did not know--then! Eyes, Skookum--never again will we be afraid of the eyes in the dark!” CHAPTER XXVII THE WORTH OF GOLD Way down North, where the ice-locked Colville winds its way to the frozen sea, Burr MacShane sat upon the floor of his igloo and stared at the pile of red gold he had heaped onto a square of canvas. Beside him were many empty caribou-skin sacks. Slowly he thrust his fingers into the yellow-red pile, working them into the heavy metal until his hand was buried to the wrist. Very deliberately he blew a cloud of blue smoke ceilingward. “‘Is it worth it?’ she asked, that day on the trail, ‘Up here we are missing--life.’ An’ I said I didn’t know, an’ that if I found out I would tell her the answer.” He withdrew his hand from the golden pile and meticulously tamped the ashes into the bowl of his pipe.