one _may the
wolves gnaw your bones upon the crust of the snow_. That little cabin
holds all that I love in the world. I never boast, and I never
threaten--nor do I ever repent the work of my hands." He paused and
looked squarely into his brother's eyes, and when he spoke again the
words fell slowly from his lips--one by one, with a tiny silence
between--"_You have heard it, maybe--scarcely disturbing the silence of
the night--that sound of the crunching of bones on the snow._" A hand of
ice seemed to reach beneath Rene's blue _capote_ and fasten upon his
heart, there came a strange prickling at the roots of his hair, and
little chills shot along his spine. Somewhere back in the forest a tree
exploded with the frost, and Rene jumped, nervously. Then, side by side,
the brothers made their way to the cabin in silence.

CHAPTER VI

AT THE END OF RENE'S TRAIL

The ridge up which Connie Morgan laboured at the head of his dogs was a
sparsely timbered slope which terminated in a rounded crest a mile away.
To the boy that smoothly rolling sky line looked ten miles ahead of him.
No breath of wind stirred the stinging dead air. His snowshoes became
great weights upon his feet which sought to drag him down, down into
immeasurable depths of soft warm snow. The slope which in reality was a
very easy grade assumed the steepness of a mountain side. He wanted
above all things to sleep. He glanced backward. 'Merican Joe's team had
stopped, and the Indian was fumbling listlessly with his pack. Halting
his own dogs, the boy hastened back. The effort taxed his strength to
the limit. His heavy whiplash swished through the air, and 'Merican Joe
straightened up with a howl of pain.

"Come on!" cried Connie, as he prepared to strike again. "That cabin's
only just over the ridge, and if you stop here you'll freeze!"

"No use," mumbled the Indian. "De red death--de white death. We goin'
die annyhow. Me--I'm lak I'm sleep."

"You mush!" ordered the boy. "Get up there and take my dogs and I'll
take yours. No more laying down on the job or I'll lay on this whip in
earnest. If we mush we'll be there in an hour--_Skookum_ Injun! Where's
your nerve?"

'Merican Joe smiled. "_Skookum tillicum_," he muttered gravely, pointing
his mittened hand toward the boy. "Me I'm go 'long wit' you till I die.
We mak' her, now. We speet on de _kultus tamahnawus_ in hees face!"

"You bet we will!" cried the boy. "Get up there now, and keep those dogs