Smithson and Roberts had done the same. It was late in the afternoon. The storm clouds were rapidly gathering overhead. The men had raised a sail and were scudding northward before the wind towards Caribou. If they could make the crossing that night, Roberts said, they would be in luck. To sleep on shore and sail again next morning was his plan. Night came on. No other craft was near. The wind flapped their small sail and the yardarm wobbled badly. Roberts sat in the stern. "Mind the sail, there, Smithson, and pull that tarpaulin over the grub pile, for by Jingo! we're goin' to catch it now!" as the cold rain dashed full against their faces, and they both crouched lower in the boat. "Haul in the sail!" shouted Roberts, an instant later at the top of his voice, and Smithson arose presumedly to obey. "Haul in the sail!" repeated Roberts while tending the rudder, as the other hesitated. With that the man addressed moved, but not in the way expected. He grasped the yardarm and swung it suddenly and heavily around against Roberts. Instantly the side of the little craft dipped low, shipping water, but the roar of the gale drowned the noise of a sudden splash. A cry of horror, the flash of two hands in the water, and the boat sped madly away on her course. Ten minutes later the white capped waters tossed a boat upon the beach near Caribou. Its one occupant looked wildly around in the darkness but presently managed to make a fire by which to warm and dry himself. He muttered incoherently meanwhile. "I didn't do it--'twas the wind--dark and wild--couldn't stop the boat--terrible storm--two hands in the water--Jove! where's that whiskey?" and he fumbled among the supplies under the tarpaulin. When he had found it and drunk deeply he felt stronger and replenished the fire. "The ledge! The hidden ledge! It's all mine now, yes, mine, mine!" and he hugged himself in his greedy, guilty joy. "To-morrow I'll sell the grub and backtrack to the coast to guard it." The storm died away and the cold, bright moon shone searchingly. The man lay down in the boat to rest, pulling his furs and tarpaulin over him. Sleep did not immediately come at his bidding. He saw and heard affrighting things. The rush and roar of the elements--two hands flashing out of the ink-black water--the cry of horror--but he wanted to forget, and at last, in spite of all, he slept. * * * * * An Indian guide trudged heavily up the long trail toward the summit. He was closely followed by a white man and both were headed southward. The guide carried a heavy pack on his back, but the white man was "traveling light."