98            THE TRAIL OF  '98
that fell, the gap closed up, the march went on. The great army crawled up and over the summit. Far behind could we see them, hundreds, thousands, a countless host, all with " Klondike " on their lips and the lust of the gold-lure in their hearts. It was the Great Stampede.
" Klondike or bust," was the slogan. It was ever on the lips of those bearded men. " Klondike or bust"—the strong man, with infinite patience, righted his overturned sleigh, and in the face of the blinding blizzard, pushed on through the clogging snow. " Klondike or bust "—the weary, trail-worn one raised himself from the hole where he had fallen, and stiff, cold, racked with pain, gritted his teeth doggedly and staggered on a few feet more. " Klondike or bust "—the fanatic of the trail, crazed with the gold-lust, performed mad feats of endurance, till nature rebelled, and raving and howling, he was carried away to die.
" 'Member Joe? " some one would say, as a pack-horse came down the trail with, strapped on it, a dead, rigid shape. " Joe used to be plumb-full of fun; always joshin' or takin' some guy off; well— that's Joe."
Two weary, woe-begone men were pulling a hand-sleigh down from the summit. On it was lashed a man. He was in a high fever, raving, delirious. Half-crazed with suffering themselves, his partners plodded on unheedingly. I recognised in them the Bank clerk and the Professor, and I hailed them. From black hollows their eyes stared at me unre*