n the
whole, it did not seem likely, though they might get scent of him, and,
rising to his feet, he felt that the rifle magazine was full before he
set off at his highest speed.

The snow was loose, however, and his shoes packed and sank; his breath
got shorter, and he began to feel distressed. There was no sound
behind him, but that somehow increased his uneasiness and now and then
he anxiously turned his head. Nothing moved on the sweep of blue-grey
shadow and he pressed on, knowing how poor his speed was compared with
that the wolves were capable of making. At length it was with keen
satisfaction he saw a flicker of light break out from the dark mass of
a bluff ahead and a few minutes later he came, breathing hard, into
camp.

"You haven't stayed out long," Benson remarked. "I suppose you saw
nothing."

"I heard wolves," Blake answered drily. "You had better gather wood
enough to keep a big fire going, because I've no doubt they'll pick up
my trail. However, it's a promising sign."

"I guess we could do without it," Harding broke in. "I've no use for
wolves."

"They must live on something," Blake rejoined. "Since they're here,
there are probably moose or caribou in the neighbourhood. I'll have
another try to-morrow."

"But the wolves."

"They're not so bold in daylight. Anyhow, it seems to me we must take
some risks."

This was obvious, and when they had heaped up a good supply of wood
Harding and Blake went to sleep, leaving Benson to keep watch.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE CARIBOU

When Blake was awakened by Harding, the cold was almost unendurable,
and it cost him a determined effort to rise from the hollow he had
scraped out of the snow and lined with spruce twigs close beside the
fire. He had not been warm there, and it was significant that the snow
was dry, but sleep had brought him relief from discomfort and he had
found getting up the greatest hardship of the trying journey. In
answer to his drowsy questions, Harding said he had once or twice heard
a wolf howl in the distance, but that was all, and then lay down,
leaving Blake on guard. He sat with his back to a snowbank which
afforded some shelter and imagined from his sensations that the
temperature must be about fifty degrees below zero. The frost bit
through him, stiffening his muscles until he felt that if vigorous
movement were demanded of him he would be incapable of it, and dulling
his brain. He could not reason clearly,