It was a scene not soon to be forgotten. The Arctic darkness of the middle of the afternoon dispersed by the yellow-red glare of the flames that crackled and roared as they leaped high above the heaps of dry spruce, which sent showers of red sparks skyward with each addition of fuel. The tense, excited faces of the men and women grouped about the fires. The quick, nervous laughter. The curious blending of hoarse voices. The continuous short journeyings to the outer rim of the firelight, and the intent peering up river toward a spot a mile and a half away where the stream narrowed between two cut-banks. For it was from that point that the first tidings of the race would be flashed. A man had been stationed on top of each cut bank, each with a heap of dry wood waiting for a touch of the match to make it spring into flame. Should Gordon be first to sweep through the cut only one fire would be lighted. If Dalzene was leading two fires would blaze out simultaneously. Lou Gordon did not mingle with the crowd about the fires. Out in front of the finish line, well without the circle of the firelight, she stood straining her eyes up river. Now and then, to overcome the chill, for the thermometer registered thirty below zero, she paced back and forth upon the ice, but always her eyes stabbed the outer darkness for the first glimmer of light that would tell of the race. Beside her, Enright, scarcely less vigilant, sought to relieve the tense strain that gripped the girl to the very soul. Inside those heavy mittens, the man knew that the girl’s nails were biting into the flesh of her palms. “Four o’clock, Miss Lou,” he announced. “I didn’t figger he’d make it as quick as you did. But he don’t need to. Dalzene’s best time was nine hours an’ ten minutes. That’s what he bragged on. It might be an hour or more yet, before they show up. You run along back to the fires an’ mix with the folks a little. It’ll do you good, I’ll wait here an’ beller out the news jist the second I git the first flash.” But the girl would have none of it, as with tight-pressed lips she answered with a shake of her head. Back and forth, back and forth she paced with quick, nervous strides, or standing motionless as a carved statue, sought vainly to pierce the outer dark. “Half past four,” announced Enright, “They’ll be showin’ up soon, now. Another half-hour an’ we’ll know.” But, in another half-hour they did not know. It was quarter past five, and still no flash from up river. The girl’s tense excitement had communicated itself to the others. There was no murmur of hoarse voices now--and no laughter. The outer rim of firelight was crowded, and the deserted fires, flared feebly with now and then a flash of brilliance as a spruce top fell into the embers. The sound of breathing could be heard, and the soft rasp of moccasins and mukluks upon the ice. Suddenly there was a sound, a quick swishing sound that was a sharp in-gasping of breath.