ve, and he was compelled
to use another. He was down to his last match.

Well, he must travel extra hard. So next day in a panic of fear he
covered a vast stretch of country. He must be getting near to one of the
gold creeks. As he surmounted the crest of every ridge he expected to
see the blue smoke of cabin fires, yet always was there the same empty
desolation. Then night came and he prepared to camp.

Once more he chopped down some trees and piled them in a heap. He was
very hungry, very cold, very tired. What a glorious blaze he would soon
have! How gallantly the flames would leap and soar! He collected some
dry moss and twigs. Never had he felt the cold so bitter. It was growing
dusk. Above him the sky had a corpse-like glimmer, and on the snow
strange bale-fires glinted. It was a weird, sardonic light that waited,
keeping tryst with darkness.

He shuddered and his fingers trembled. Then ever so carefully he drew
forth that most precious of things, the last match.

He must hurry; his fingers were tingling, freezing, stiffening fast. He
would lie down on the snow, and strike it quickly.... "O God!"

From his numb fingers the slim little match had dropped. There it lay on
the snow. Gingerly he picked it up, with a wild hope that it would be
all right. He struck it, but it doubled up. Again he struck it: the head
came off--he was lost.

He fell forward on his face. His hands were numb, dead. He lay supported
by his elbows, his eyes gazing blankly at the unlit fire. Five minutes
passed; he did not rise. He seemed dazed, stupid, terror-stricken. Five
more minutes passed. He did not move. He seemed to stiffen, to grow
rigid, and the darkness gathered around him.

A thought came to his mind that he would straighten out, so that when
they found him he would be in good shape to fit in a coffin. He did not
want them to break his legs and arms. Yes, he would straighten out. He
tried--but he could not, so he let it go at that.

Over him the Wild seemed to laugh, a laugh of scorn, of mockery, of
exquisite malice.

And there in fifteen minutes the cold slew him. When they found him he
lay resting on his elbows and gazing with blank eyes of horror at his
unlit fire.

CHAPTER XII

"It's a beast of a night," said the Halfbreed.

He and I were paying a visit to Jim in the cabin he had built on Ophir.
Jim was busy making ready for his hydraulic work of the coming Spring,
and once in a while we took a run up to