ing along
the back trail.

He scarcely stopped for sleep or food, but gnawed raw bacon and
frozen bread, swinging from shoe to shoe, devouring distance with the
steady, rhythmic pace of a machine. He made no fires. As darkness
settled, rendering progress a peril, he unrolled his robe, and
burrowed into some overhanging drift, and the earliest hint of dawn
found him miles onward.

Though the weather was clear, he grew numbed and careless under the
strain of his fatigue, so that the frost bit hungrily at his
features. He grew gaunt, and his feet swelled from the snow-shoe
thongs till they puffed out his loose, sealskin boots, and every step
in the morning hours brought forth a groan.

He was tortured by the thought that perhaps the Indian had carelessly
let go the fire in Klusky's cabin. If so, the precious potatoes
would freeze in a night. Then, if the native rebuilt it, he would
arrive only to find a mushy, putrifying mass, worse than useless.
The uncertainty sickened him, and at last, as he sighted the little
hamlet, he paused, bracing his legs apart weakly.

He searched fearfully for traces of smoke above Klusky's cabin.
There were none. Somehow the lone shack seemed to stare malignantly
at him, as he staggered up the trail, and he heard himself muttering.
There were no locks in this land, so he entered unbidden. The place
was empty, though warm from recent habitation. With his remaining
strength he scrambled up a rude ladder to the loft where he fumbled
in the dark while his heart stopped. Then he cried hoarsely and,
ripping open the box, stuffed them gloatingly into pockets and shirt
front. He dropped from the platform and fled out through the open
door, capless and mittenless; out and on toward the village.

His pace slackened suddenly, for he noted with a shock that, like
Klusky's cabin, no smoke drifted over the house toward which he ran,
and, drawing near, he saw that snow lay before the door; clean,
white, and untrodden. He was too dazed to recall the light fall of
the night previous, but glared blankly at the idle pipe; at the cold
and desolate front.

"Too late!" he murmured brokenly. "Too late!" and stumbled to the
snow-cushioned chopping block.

He dared not go in. Evidently the camp had let George die; had never
come near to lift a hand. He was afraid of what lay within, afraid
to face it alone. Yet a dreadful need to know pulled him forward.
Three times he approached the door, ret