at had
become of their two comrades. Granting every delay, and throwing in
generous margins for good measure, the time was long since passed when
they should have returned. Without doubt they had met with disaster.
The party had considered the possibility of disaster for one man, and
that had been the principal reason for despatching the two in different
directions. But that disaster should have come to both of them was the
final blow.

In the meantime, hoping against hope, Daylight and Elija eked out a
meagre existence. The thaw had not yet begun, so they were able to
gather the snow about the ruined cache and melt it in pots and pails
and gold pans. Allowed to stand for a while, when poured off, a thin
deposit of slime was found on the bottoms of the vessels. This was the
flour, the infinitesimal trace of it scattered through thousands of
cubic yards of snow. Also, in this slime occurred at intervals a
water-soaked tea-leaf or coffee-ground, and there were in it fragments
of earth and litter. But the farther they worked away from the site of
the cache, the thinner became the trace of flour, the smaller the
deposit of slime.

Elijah was the older man, and he weakened first, so that he came to lie
up most of the time in his furs. An occasional tree-squirrel kept them
alive. The hunting fell upon Daylight, and it was hard work. With but
thirty rounds of ammunition, he dared not risk a miss; and, since his
rifle was a 45-90, he was compelled to shoot the small creatures
through the head. There were very few of them, and days went by
without seeing one. When he did see one, he took infinite precautions.
He would stalk it for hours. A score of times, with arms that shook
from weakness, he would draw a sight on the animal and refrain from
pulling the trigger. His inhibition was a thing of iron. He was the
master. Not til absolute certitude was his did he shoot. No matter how
sharp the pangs of hunger and desire for that palpitating morsel of
chattering life, he refused to take the slightest risk of a miss. He,
born gambler, was gambling in the bigger way. His life was the stake,
his cards were the cartridges, and he played as only a big gambler
could play, with infinite precaution, with infinite consideration.
Each shot meant a squirrel, and though days elapsed between shots, it
never changed his method of play.

Of the squirrels, nothing was lost. Even the skins were boiled to make
broth, the bones p