But even more than this, he was appalled by the thought that now, without dogs, he must remain here throughout the long, lonely winter, at least ninety miles from the nearest point of civilization. That is, unless some traveler happened along who would be willing to take him out. But there was no counting on that. The trails were bad, there wouldn’t be much traveling over them. And he couldn’t help wondering about Miller, half wishing he had gone on with the man. But there. The thing was done now. No use thinking of it. Again he fell to work. And suddenly he pitched forward on his face. The pick, instead of coming to the usual shocking halt on the frozen ground, had sunk deep and had thrown him off his balance. Amazed, he extracted it. For a moment he stood looking wonderingly down at the round black hole it had made. Then he fell to work with eager excitement. And in another moment, from a box that was half-filled with small leather bags, he had taken a note and was reading. Dear Stranger: I have no relatives and no friends. This ten thousand in gold dust is yours. Anyone who is white enough to do what you have done is worthy of it. Many thanks, Stranger. And good luck. [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 26, 1926 issue of Short Stories magazine.]