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but that he should be destroyed violently before starvation had
exhausted the last particle of the endeavor in him that made toward
surviving。 There were the wolves。 Back and forth across the
desolation drifted their howls； weaving the very air into a fabric
of menace that was so tangible that he found himself； arms in the
air； pressing it back from him as it might be the walls of a wind…
blown tent。
Now and again the wolves； in packs of two and three； crossed his
path。 But they sheered clear of him。 They were not in sufficient
numbers； and besides they were hunting the caribou； which did not
battle； while this strange creature that walked erect might scratch
and bite。
In the late afternoon he came upon scattered bones where the wolves
had made a kill。 The debris had been a caribou calf an hour
before； squawking and running and very much alive。 He contemplated
the bones； clean…picked and polished； pink with the cell…life in
them which had not yet died。 Could it possibly be that he might be
that ere the day was done！ Such was life； eh？ A vain and fleeting
thing。 It was only life that pained。 There was no hurt in death。
To die was to sleep。 It meant cessation； rest。 Then why was he
not content to die？
But he did not moralize long。 He was squatting in the moss； a bone
in his mouth； sucking at the shreds of life that still dyed it
faintly pink。 The sweet meaty taste； thin and elusive almost as a
memory； maddened him。 He closed his jaws on the bones and
crunched。 Sometimes it was the bone that broke； sometimes his
teeth。 Then he crushed the bones between rocks； pounded them to a
pulp； and swallowed them。 He pounded his fingers； too； in his
haste； and yet found a moment in which to feel surprise at the fact
that his fingers did not hurt much when caught under the descending
rock。
Came frightful days of snow and rain。 He did not know when he made
camp； when he broke camp。 He travelled in the night as much as in
the day。 He rested wherever he fell； crawled on whenever the dying
life in him flickered up and burned less dimly。 He； as a man； no
longer strove。 It was the life in him； unwilling to die； that
drove him on。 He did not suffer。 His nerves had become blunted；
numb； while his mind was filled with weird visions and delicious
dreams。
But ever he sucked and chewed on the crushed bones of the caribou
calf； the least remnants of which he had gathered up and carried
with him。 He crossed no more hills or divides； but automatically
followed a large stream which flowed through a wide and shallow
valley。 He did not see this stream nor this valley。 He saw
nothing save visions。 Soul and body walked or crawled side by
side； yet apart； so slender was the thread that bound them。
He awoke in his right mind； lying on his back on a rocky ledge。
The sun was shining bright and warm。 Afar off he heard the
squawking of caribou calves。 He was aware of vague memories of
rain and wind and snow； but whether he had been beaten by the storm
for two days or two weeks he did not know。
For some time he lay without movement； the genial sunshine pouring
upon him and saturating his miserable body with its warmth。 A fine
day； he thought。 Perhaps he could manage to locate himself。 By a
painful effort he rolled over on his side。 Below him flowed a wide
and sluggish river。 Its unfamiliarity puzzled him。 Slowly he
followed it with his eyes； winding in wide sweeps among the bleak；
bare hills； bleaker and barer and lower…lying than any hills he had
yet encountered。 Slowly； deliberately； without excitement or more
than the most casual interest； he followed the course of the
strange stream toward the sky…line and saw it emptying into a
bright and shining sea。 He was still unexcited。 Most unusual； he
thought； a vision or a mirage … more likely a vision； a trick of
his disordered mind。 He was confirmed in this by sight of a ship
lying at anchor in the midst of the shining sea。 He closed his
eyes for a while； then opened them。 Strange how the vision
persisted！ Yet not strange。 He knew there were no seas or ships
in the heart of the barren lands； just as he had known there was no
cartridge in the empty rifle。
He heard a snuffle behind him … a half…choking gasp or cough。 Very
slowly； because of his exceeding weakness and stiffness； he rolled
over on his other side。 He could see nothing near at hand； but he
waited patiently。 Again came the snuffle and cough； and outlined
between two jagged rocks not a score of feet away he made out the
gray head of a wolf。 The sharp ears were not pricked so sharply as
he had seen them on other wolves； the eyes were bleared and
bloodshot； the head seemed to droop limply and forlornly。 The
animal blinked continually in the sunshine。 It seemed sick。 As he
looked it snuffled and coughed again。
This； at least； was real； he thought； and turned on the other side
so that he might see the reality of the world which had been veiled
from him before by the vision。 But the sea still shone in the
distance and the ship was plainly discernible。 Was it reality；
after all？ He closed his eyes for a long while and thought； and
then it came to him。 He had been making north by east； away from
the Dease Divide and into the Coppermine Valley。 This wide and
sluggish river was the Coppermine。 That shining sea was the Arctic
Ocean。 That ship was a whaler； strayed east； far east； from the
mouth of the Mackenzie； and it was lying at anchor in Coronation
Gulf。 He remembered the Hudson Bay Company chart he had seen long
ago； and it was all clear and reasonable to him。
He sat up and turned his attention to immediate affairs。 He had
worn through the blanket…wrappings； and his feet were shapeless
lumps of raw meat。 His last blanket was gone。 Rifle and knife
were both missing。 He had lost his hat somewhere； with the bunch
of matches in the band； but the matches against his chest were safe
and dry inside the tobacco pouch and oil paper。 He looked at his
watch。 It marked eleven o'clock and was still running。 Evidently
he had kept it wound。
He was calm and collected。 Though extremely weak； he had no
sensation of pain。 He was not hungry。 The thought of food was not
even pleasant to him； and whatever he did was done by his reason
alone。 He ripped off his pants' legs to the knees and bound them
about his feet。 Somehow he had succeeded in retaining the tin
bucket。 He would have some hot water before he began what he
foresaw was to be a terrible journey to the ship。
His movements were slow。 He shook as with a palsy。 When he
started to collect dry moss； he found he could not rise to his
feet。 He tried again and again； then contented himself with
crawling about on hands and knees。 Once he crawled near to the
sick wolf。 The animal dragged itself