As he stood and rested, thinking of these things, something upon the river attracted his attention. At first it appeared as a mere speck, but it was moving. With breathless interest he strained his eyes across the snowy waste. He knew what it was—a dog-team! Was it the Police patrol? He shrank instinctively back, and unconsciously raised his right hand as if to ward off some impending danger. A low growl, almost like a curse, rumbled in his throat, as he turned and once more continued his journey.
His course now led inland, and in a few minutes the river was lost to view. The trail for a time wound through a forest of young firs and jack-pines, whose slender branches reached out like welcoming hands. He felt at home here and breathed more freely. Then the way sloped to a valley, and up a long wild meadow.
It was a magnificent region through which he was travelling. To the right rose great mountains, terrace above terrace, and terminating in majestic summits far beyond the timber-line. These, however, were surpassed by one towering peak far away in the distance. For years it had been his special guide. Others might be lost to view, but not the Golden Horn. It formed the subject of considerable speculation among miners, prospectors, and trappers. Its summit had never been reached. But daring adventurers who had scaled beyond the timber-line, solemnly affirmed that it was the real Mount Ararat. Embedded in everlasting snow and ice they had seen the timbers of a vessel of huge size and marvellous design, which they declared to be the ruins of Noah’s ark.
Others believed that in that massive pile would be found a great mother-lode of precious gold. Its commanding peak, which from certain points of view re-
