After a quarter of a mile, she turned sharply to the west. Smoke noticed that they were going through unpacked snow, but neither he nor Shorty observed that the dim trail they had been on still led south. Had they witnessed the subsequent procedure of Louis Gastell, the history of the Klondike would have been written differently; for they would have seen that old-timer, no longer limping, running with his nose to the trail like a hound, following them. Also, they would have seen him trample and widen the turn to the fresh trail they had made to the west. And, finally, they would have seen him keep on the old dim trail that still led south. A trail did run up the creek, but so slight was it that they continually lost it in the darkness. After a quarter of an hour, Joy Gastell was willing to drop into the rear and let the two men take turns in breaking a way through the snow. This slowness of the leaders enabled the whole stampede to catch up, and when daylight came, at nine o'clock, as far back as they could see was an unbroken line of men. Joy's dark eyes sparkled at the sight. “How long since we started up the creek?” she asked. “Fully two hours,” Smoke answered. “And two hours back make four,” she laughed. “The stampede from Sea Lion is saved.” A faint suspicion crossed Smoke's mind, and he stopped and confronted her. “I don't understand,” he said. “You don't? Then I'll tell you. This is Norway Creek. Squaw Creek is the next to the south.” Smoke was for the moment, speechless. “You did it on purpose?” Shorty demanded. “I did it to give the old-timers a chance.” She laughed mockingly. The men grinned at each other and finally joined her. “I'd lay you across my knee an' give you a wallopin', if women folk wasn't so scarce in this country,” Shorty assured her. “Your father didn't sprain a tendon, but waited till we were out of sight and then went on?” Smoke asked. She nodded. “And you were the decoy?” Again she nodded, and this time Smoke's laughter rang out clear and true. It was the spontaneous laughter of a frankly beaten man. “Why don't you get angry with me?” she queried ruefully. “Or--or wallop me?” “Well, we might as well be starting back,” Shorty urged. “My feet's gettin' cold standin' here.” Smoke shook his head. “That would mean four hours lost. We must be eight miles up this creek now, and from the look ahead Norway is making a long swing south. We'll follow it, then cross over the divide somehow, and tap Squaw Creek somewhere above Discovery.” He looked at Joy. “Won't you come along with us? I told your father we'd look after you.” “I--” She hesitated. “I think I shall, if you don't mind.” She was looking straight at him, and her face was no longer defiant and mocking. “Really, Mr. Smoke, you make me almost sorry for what I have done. But somebody had to save the old-timers.” “It strikes me that stampeding is at best a sporting proposition.”