preoccupied with his own discoveries. His bare hand was still wiping
away the curiously moist snow that beat upon his face.

"Yes," he said conclusively. "She'll break soon." Then after a moment:
"She's breaking _now_."

An interruption came from the distant dogs. It was the snarling yap of a
quarrel. Then came the echo of Oolak's harsh voice and the thud of his
club as he silenced them in the only manner they understood.

Steve's announcement failed to startle his companion. Nothing stirred
Julyman but the fear of "devil-men," and his queer native superstitions.

"Him soften. Oh, yes," he said. "Wind him all go west. Him soft. Yes."

The wind had been carrying "forty below zero" on its relentless bosom.
Its ferocity still remained, but now it was tempered by a warmth wholly
unaccounted for by the change in its direction. A western wind in these
latitudes was little less terrible than when it blew from the north. It
had over three thousand miles of snow and ice to reduce its temperature.

Steve's voice again came in the howl of the wind.

"Guess we'll get back to the fire," he said decisively.

Julyman needed no second bidding; he turned and moved away.

Back at the fire Oolak watched his companions retake their places. He
had no questions to ask. He simply waited. That was his way. He seemed
to live at all times with a mind absorbed.

Steve pointed at the diminished pile of scrub wood.

"Best make up the fire," he said, addressing Julyman.

The Indian eyed him doubtfully. Their store of fuel was perilously low.

"Sure," Steve nodded. And the Indian obeyed without further demur.

Steve re-lit his pipe and sucked at it comfortably. Then he spoke with
an assurance he could not have displayed earlier.

"Say," he exclaimed, without looking up from the fire. "You get the
meaning of it? Maybe you don't get the meaning I do."

He laughed. It was a curious laugh. It had no mirth. But it was an
expression of feelings which required outlet.

"No. Maybe you don't," he went on. "You see, I got a--notion. The wind's
west--now. It should be a hell of a cold wind. It isn't. No. It should
be hellish cold," he reflected. "Why isn't it? The hills lie west. The
big hills. Maybe _the_ big hill. Well? I kind of wonder. Maybe it's
that. It's a guess. A hell of a guess. Does the west wind hereabouts
blow across the big fire hill? And are those fires so almighty hot they
set the snow melting where all the world's freezing at