CHAPTER 13
The Rush of Doom
THE gigantic mass of the Golden Horn was a deceptive monster. From all quarters it formed an unerring guide to travellers on the trails. Its towering peak when touched by the sun was the admiration of all who beheld it. From a distance it often seemed like a fairy land, especially when sun and wavering clouds became entangled in a mesh of surpassing glory. But to veterans of the north, both Indians and whites, it was a demon to be feared when the snows of numerous winter storms lay thick upon its sides. Huge banks, steadily increasing, would cling for weeks, and sometimes months, in deep crevices. When at last the weight became so tremendous that the mass could hold no longer, it would slip from its place with the roar of thunder, and tear down the mountain side. At times it would start without any apparent reason, even in the finest of weather, carrying destruction to all before it. In former days the Indians looked upon the Golden Horn as the special abode of the Great Spirit. When he smiled in the glory of the sun-crowned summit they were happy, knowing that the god was pleased. But wher he raged in the furious tempests, and hurled forth his avalanches of death-dealing snow, then he was angry, and they offered to him gifts of meat, furs, and blankets. As a rule they shunned in winter the
mountain route between the Great River and The Gap,
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