They run. Oh, yes. An' the man turn. He run, too. Then
Oolak see him face. Oh, yes. Him face of Oolak. Him eyes big with fear.
Him cry out. So him run lak hell so the fire not get him."

The silent Oolak had committed himself to speech. He had talked long out
of the superstitious dread that beset his Indian heart. He had dreamed a
dream that filled him with fear of the future, towards which he looked
for its fulfilment.

The grey dawn was searching the obscurity of the fringe of woody shelter
in which the camp was made--the last camp on the return journey from
Seal Bay to the fort. The smell of cooked meat rose from the pan which
Julyman held over the fire. Steve sat on a fallen log, smoking, and
listening tolerantly to the man's recital, while the sharp yapping of
the dogs near by suggested the usual altercation over their daily meal
of frozen fish. The cold was intense, but the cracking, splitting
booming which came up out of the heart of the woods told of the
reluctant yielding of the tenacious grip of winter.

Something of Oolak's awe found reflection in the eyes of Julyman. He,
too, was an easy prey to the other's primitive superstition. Steve alone
seemed untroubled. He understood these men. They were comrades on the
trail. There was no distinction. There was no master and servant here.
They fought the battle together, the Indians only looking to him for
leadership. Thus he restrained the lurking smile of irony as he listened
to the awesome recital of a dream that filled the dreamer with serious
apprehension.

"And this fire? Where did it come from?" he demanded, with a seriousness
he by no means felt.

Oolak met his gaze with a look of appeal.

"The earth all fire," he said. "The hills, the valleys, the trees. All
same. Him fire everywhere. Oh, yes. It run so as water. It fill 'em up
all things--everywhere. An' it burn all up. Not boss Steve an' Julyman.
Oh, no."

Steve meditated awhile. Oolak needed an interpretation of his dream, or,
anyway, must listen to the voice of comfort. He understood this as he
gazed upon the partially crippled body of the man who was still a giant
on the trail.

The passing of years had touched Steve lightly enough. Time might almost
have stood still altogether. A few grey hairs about the temples. A
thinning of his dark hair perhaps. Then the lines of his face had
perhaps deepened. But in the fourteen years that had elapsed since his
return to Unaga the raw muscle and the pow