The night air revived him somewhat, but even that could not stimulate his broken spirits to even a semblance of the mighty fury to which he was addicted. He was unutterably lonely, with the bitter loneliness of a man forsaken of his kind. In a sort of dull apathy he bent his steps toward the roadhouse, whose frosted panes showed a yellow square of light. Pushing through the door he stood blinking in the lamplight. A girl sat beside the stove reading. She glanced up, and with a start Dalzene recognized the woman who had that morning sat upon the sled with Gordon, and whose starting of the dog team he had protested. The morning of this same day--not quite twelve hours ago--and it seemed years. And twelve hours from now he would be alone upon the river, mushing southward--alone--alone. The man drew a deep breath. Maybe this girl would speak to him--would talk to him if only for a few minutes. She was reading again. After that first swift impersonal glance that held in it nothing of approval or of disapproval--even of recognition, her eyes had returned to the open page. Surely, this girl could know nothing of the miner’s meeting, yet her glance had been the same impersonal glance of the men in the saloon after their vote had segregated him from his kind. Dalzene cleared his throat harshly, and endeavoring to inject an ingratiating note into his voice, spoke: “Good evenin’, Miss, didn’t I see you this mornin’ down on the river?” “You did,” answered the girl, without raising her eyes from the book. “Ain’t you Old Man Gordon’s darter?” “I am.” “My name’s Dalzene.” The announcement apparently went unheard. “Where’s yer pa? I didn’t see him in the saloon.” “He’s in bed. He hurt his knee at the finish of the race.” “Too bad. I hope it ain’t hurt much.” “Not badly, I guess, just stiffened up.” “I don’t bear yous no grudge fer winnin’ the race.” Dalzene paused, expecting a reply, but receiving none, he continued: “Do you know if he would sell that dog?” “What dog?” “That leader of his’n. Pretty fair lookin’ dog. I might buy him.” “He’s not for sale.” “I might go a hundred dollars.” “I get that for culls.” “_You_ do! Be they your dogs?” “Yes.” “Well, two hundred.” “He’s not for sale.” “That’s alright, but folks’ll sell anything they got if the price is right. What do you hold him at?” “I said he is not for sale. Do you understand? That dog is not for sale.” “How about one of them malamutes, then, er two of ’em.” “No dog in that team is for sale!” exclaimed the girl, for the first time raising her eyes to his. “And if I had a thousand dogs for sale and you were to offer me a thousand dollars apiece for them, I wouldn’t sell you a single dog. Not after seeing the brutal way you handled your own dogs.”