ing at you."

"Good. Now listen, and I'll pass you the rest of Lorson's message."

Tough emptied his pannikin to the dregs, and, leaning back in his chair,
beamed across at the man he knew to be at the mercy of Lorson Harris.
There was no feeling, no sympathy in him. He cared not one jot for
anyone in the world but himself, and his standing with the man who paid
for his services.

CHAPTER XIII

THE FAITH OF MEN

The men crouched for warmth and the shadow of comfort over a miserable
fire. The dogs were beyond, herded far within the shelter, their fierce
eyes agleam with a reflection of the feeble firelight as they gazed out
hungrily in its direction. It was a cavernous break in the rock-bound
confines of a nameless Northern river.

Steve passed a hand down his face. He brushed away the moisture of
melting ice. It was a significant gesture, accompanied as it was by a
deep breath of weariness. Two hundred miles and more of Arctic terror
lay behind him. As yet he had no reckoning of how much more lay ahead.

The world outside was lost in a chaos of warring elements. So it had
lain for a week. In the fury of the blizzard the Arctic night was
reduced to a pitchy blackness worse than the sightlessness of the blind.

How long? It was the question haunting Steve's mind, and the minds of
those others with him. But the shrieking elements refused to enlighten
him. It was their joy to mock, and taunt, and, if possible, to slay.

Steve rose from his seat over the fire. He turned and moved towards the
mouth of the shelter. Beyond the light of the fire he had to grope his
way. At the opening the snow was piled high, driven in by the storm.
There was left only the narrowest aperture leading to the black
darkness beyond.

He paused at the opening. He was half buried in the drift, and the lash
of the storm whipped his face mercilessly. For some moments he endured
the assault, then his voice came back to the figures of his companions
squatting moveless over the fire.

"Ho, you, Julyman!" he called sharply.

Moments later the Indian stood beside the white man, peering out into
the desolation beyond.

"She's not going to last a deal longer."

Steve was wiping his face with a _bare_ hand.

Julyman missed the movement in the darkness.

"She mak' him break bimeby--soon. Oh, yes."

There was something almost heroic in the attempt Julyman made to throw
confidence into his tone. But Steve needed no such support. He was