“Thank you,” said he, and lumbered heavily down the stairs. The next morning I waited until 11 o’clock for Swiftwater and Bera to come for me to go to breakfast. I had slept little or none the night before and my nerves were worn down to the fine edge that comes just before a total collapse. When it seemed as if I could not wait longer, there came a knock at the door. When I opened the door there stood George Taylor, a friend of Swiftwater’s of some years’ standing. “Mrs. Beebe, I came to tell you that Swiftwater and Bera left early this morning to go to Quartz Creek on horseback. I promised Swiftwater I would help you move to his cabin and get everything ready for their return on Saturday.” “In Heaven’s name, what is Swiftwater trying to do--kill Bera?” I exclaimed. “That ride to Quartz Creek in her condition, through the mud and mire of that trail, will kill her.” Taylor merely looked at me and did not answer. “Are you telling me the truth?” I demanded. “I am,” he said. Taylor walked away and I closed the door and went back to the baby. “Baby,” said I, “I guess we’re left all alone for a while and you haven’t any mama but me.” Although I afterward learned of the fact, it did me no good at that trying moment that Swiftwater had told Bera, before she would consent to leave me, that he had sent me $800 in currency by Wilson. Of course, Swiftwater did nothing of the kind, yet his story was such as to lead Bera to believe that I was well protected and comfortable. Then I set to work to move my little belongings into Swiftwater’s cabin, there to wait for four days hoping that every minute would bring some word from Bera and Gates. There was little to eat in the cabin and the $100 that Swiftwater had given me had nearly all gone for baby’s necessities. The little fellow had kept up well and strong in spite of everything, and when I undressed him at night and bathed him and got him ready for his bed, he seemed so brave and strong and sweet that I could not, for the life of me, give way to the feeling of desolation and loss that my circumstances warranted. On the third day after Bera and Swiftwater had gone and I was getting a little supper for the baby and myself in the cabin, there came a clatter of heavy boots on the gravel walk in front of the house and a boisterous knock on the door. Jumping up from the kitchen table, I nearly ran to the door, believing that Bera and Swiftwater were there. Instead there stood a messenger from the McDonald Hotel in Dawson with a letter for me. It simply said: “We have gone down the river in a small boat to Nome with Mr. Wilson. I will send you money immediately on arrival there, so that you can join us. SWIFTWATER.” That was all. I read the letter through again and then the horror of it came over me--I all alone in Dawson with Swiftwater’s four weeks’ old baby, broke and he owing me nearly $40,000.