r even to accept as a reality. He stopped, listening
intently.

The stir grew to a faint and distant murmur, the murmur to a long swish
like a million rustling garments. A tree fell, with a crash, far away.
Then the wind smote him.

In itself it was nothing to fear. It was not a hurricane, not even a
particularly violent storm, but only a brisk gale that struck him from
the side and more or less impeded his progress. Trees that were
tottering and ready to fall went down with reverberating reports; the
snowdust whirled through the forest, changing the contour of the drifts,
and filling up the tracks of the wild creatures. But for Bill the wind
held a real menace. It was from the southeast, and warm as a girl's
hand against his face.

No man of the Northwest Provinces is unacquainted with this wind. It is
prayed for in the spring because its breath melts the drifts swiftly,
but it is hated to death by the traveler caught far from his cabin on
snowshoes. The wind was the far-famed Chinook, the southeast gale that
softens the snow as a child's breath melts the frost on a window pane.

It did not occur to Bill to turn back. Already he was nearly halfway to
his destination. The food supplies had to be secured, sooner or later;
and when the Chinook comes no man knows when it will go away. He mushed
on through the softening snow.

Within an hour the crust was noticeably softer. One hour thereafter and
the snow was soft and yielding as when it had first fallen in early
winter. Mushing was no longer a pleasant pursuit. Henceforth it was
simply toil, rigorous and exhausting. The snowshoe sank deep, the snow
itself clung to the webs and frame until it was almost impossible to
lift.

A musher in the soft wet snow can only go at a certain pace. There is
no way to hurry the operation and get speedily over the difficulties.
Any attempt to quicken the pace results only in a fall. The shoe cannot
be pushed ahead as when the snow is well-packed or crusted. It has to
be deliberately lifted, putting the leg tendons to an unnatural strain.

It was too far to turn back. As many miles of weary snow stretched
behind him as before him. At Twenty-three Mile cabin he could pass a
night as comfortable as at home: there were food and blankets in plenty,
and the well-built hut contained a stove. Once there, he could wait for
a hard freeze that would be certain to harden the half-thawed snow and
make it fit for travel. Hi