want to hear
the word again."

On they went, up and down the hills, through the thickets and over the
ridges; but they no longer went with the energy they had shown in the
morning. With every mile their pace grew slower, and they were all
beginning to limp. Fred still kept in front, with his face set in grim
determination. About the middle of the afternoon Horace came up with
him, stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, and looked into his face.

Fred's eyes were bright and feverish. His face was pale and spotted
with red blotches, and he breathed heavily through his open mouth.

"You've got to stop!" said his brother firmly. "You're going on your
nerves. A little farther, and you'll collapse--go down like a shot."

"I--I'm all right!" said Fred thickly. "Got to get on--got to make it
in time!"

But Horace was firm. First they built a smudge to keep off the flies;
then they made fresh repairs to their shoes; and finally they stretched
themselves flat to rest. But in spite of their fatigue, they were too
highly strung to stay quiet. They knew that a delay of an hour might
lose the race for them. After resting for less than half an hour, they
got up and went plunging through the woods again.

They believed now that the Smoke River could not be more than five or
six miles away. From every hilltop they hoped to catch sight of it, or
at least to see some spot that they had passed while prospecting.

But although all the landscape seemed strange, they doggedly continued
the struggle. The sun was sinking low over the western ridges now;
toiling desperately on, they left mile after mile behind, but still the
Smoke River did not come into sight. At last Macgregor sat down
abruptly upon a log.

"I'd just as soon die here as anywhere," he said.

"You're right. We'll stop, and go on by moonrise," said Horace.
"Grub's what we need now."

"Why, we're almost at the end! We can't stop now!" Fred cried.

"We won't lose anything," said his brother. "The trappers will be
camping, too, about this time. If we don't rest now we'll probably
never get to the Smoke at all."

Staggering with fatigue, he set about getting wood for a fire. Mac and
Fred helped him, and when they had built a fire they broiled some of
the deer meat. Fred could hardly touch the food. Horace and Macgregor
ate only a little, and almost as they ate they nodded, and dropped
asleep from sheer fatigue.

Fred knew that he, too, ought to