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Show h9 had to climb to the northern end of the camp before I found one. As I stood there looking up the mountain, the clouds parted and I caught a glimpse-four miles up-of the small notch of Chilkoot Pass. I did not know how I could ever haul a ton of goods over that mountain. But I knew I could not give up now. If the frowning Chilkoots could do it, so could a stubborn Viking. To mark my place, I tied a shirt to my shovel and stuck it down in the snow beside my canvas bags. I hurried back down the ragged trail as fast as I could, anxious to get back to my tent before dark. Suddenly I heard my name. "James Erickson." It was the skinny boy, sitting on a snowdrift at the side of the trail. He looked as cold as an icicle. "Hello," I said. "Didn't see you. Where are the others?" "Ahead. I'm catching up. Which way are you going?" "Down," I said, "to Canyon City. How did you get separated?" There was such a long silence I knew something was wrong. "What happened?" I asked again. "My mother took sick," he said quietly. "We were clear up to The Scales, only one-half mile from the top. But she was too sick to go on. We came back here to Sheep Camp because there's a doctor here." He looked down. "She did not get better. I was spinal |
