curiosity. He unfolded it and glanced at the
handwriting. It was unrecognizable. But that which stirred him to the
depths of his soul, and flooded his heart with something like panic, was
the signature at the bottom of it. It was Steve's--Steve Allenwood.

The perusal of that letter was the work of a few moments. And throughout
the reading Ross was aware--painfully aware--of the aggravating calm of
the man who had written it. But under its unemotional words urgency,
deep, terrible urgency, was revealed. Accident and sickness had hit the
writer hard. His position was desperate. And the final paragraph
epitomized his extremity in no uncertain fashion.

I mean to do all a man can to make the headwaters of the Theton
River. Maybe I'll succeed. I can't say. If I don't you'll
understand. Maybe you'll break it to Nita as easy as you can. If
you can help her, and the kiddie, I'll be mighty thankful. Thank
God the little one won't understand. I'm sending this by a
Yellow-Knife. He reckons he knows Deadwater, and can get through
quick. Please pay him well. I can't get farther than the
headwater--if that. After that--well, it depends on the help that
can reach us.

Optimism and energy were amongst Ian Ross's strongest characteristics.
His decision was taken on the instant. With the aid of an interpreter he
questioned the Yellow-Knife, who knew no language but his own and that
of the Caribou-Eaters.

The man's story was broken but lurid.

The white man, he said, had arrived at Fort Duggan on foot, pursued by
the evil spirits of Unaga. He assured the doctor that these devils had
torn the clothes from him, and left him well-nigh naked. So with all the
party. There was blood on his feet and hands, where the spirits had
sought to devour him. Yes, they had even devoured his shoes. The white
man had a small white pappoose tied on to his back. The child was
sleeping, or sick, or dead. There was a squaw and an Indian with him,
whose bones looked out of their skins, and whose eyes were fierce and
wild like those who have looked the evil spirits in the face. These two
living-dead were hauling a sort of sled. And on the sled was another
Indian who was broken, and maybe dead. No, there were no dogs, no
outfit. It was just as he said. The Shaunekuks were good Indians, and
they gave the strangers food, and milk, and clothes to replace those the
evil spirits had devoured. They also had the canoes