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The Trail of the Golden Horn

in his sleep and drew his blanket closer around his body. Then he woke with a start, and sat bolt upright. What was that peculiar sound away to the left? He listened with straining ears, and in an instant he understood its meaning. It was a snow-slide, sweeping down upon them with a roar of thunder! With a yell that brought Rolfe to his feet, startled and dazed, North leaped across the dying embers, caught Marion in his arms, sprang back again, and staggered with his burden out upon the trail. No time had he to explain to the frightened woman the meaning of his strange action, for the roar of the onrushing avalanche was becoming louder every instant. He could hear the great trees above him crashing before the weight of the mighty demon. Could he escape with his precious burden? On and on he sped, a wild desperation adding strength to his efforts. Then in a twinkling he was hurled off his feet, and engulfed in a blinding, smothering mass of whirling snow. Away he was carried, clutching frantically the form in his arms. He was helpless to raise a hand of defense. He felt like a man carried onward by a mighty current, now sucking him down, then whirling him to the surface. The weight pressing upon him was terrible. It was crushing the life out of him. At times he could not breathe, and his brain reeled in his mad tumultuous rush. But still he clutched Marion’s body, fearful lest she should be torn from his arms. Then he felt a sudden freedom. The pressing weight relaxed, and the invigorating air filled his lungs. One more blinding swish and swirl, and he was hurled into something soft, where he lay half-dazed and panting.

A low moan aroused him, and with an effort he struggled to his knees, and groped around. His hands