sembled a gigantic horn, caught and reflected the brief winter sun in a glow of golden glory. To eager eyes and hopeful hearts this was surely an outward sign of vast treasures within. But so far it had only served as a landmark, a gleaming guide to hardy rovers of the trails.
With the Golden Horn ever before him, Hugo pressed steadily onward. At times he glanced anxiously back, especially after he had crossed a lake or a wild meadow where the view of the trail was unobstructed. Seeing no one following, he always breathed a sigh of relief, and hurried on his way.
Darkness had already settled over the land when Hugo drew up at a little shack crouching in a dense thicket of firs and pines. This was one of his stopping-places in the large circle of his trapping region. The single room contained a bunk, a sheet-iron heater, a rough table, a block of wood for a seat, and a few traps. This abode was far from the main line of travel, and no head but the owner’s had ever bent to pass its low portal.
Hugo paid careful attention to the child, looking after its welfare to the best of his knowledge. It had been remarkably good during the afternoon, and before it fell asleep upon the bunk it showed its friendliness to its rescuer by chuckling gleefully, holding out its hands, and kicking its feet in a lively manner.
For the first time in years Hugo’s stern face relaxed. His eyes, hard and defiant, assumed a softer expression. All unconsciously the helpless child was exerting upon him a subtle influence; it was casting about him a magic spell, and breathing into the coldness of his heart a warm, stimulating glow.
And when the little lad at length slept, Hugo sat by
