thered voice, and at
first streak of dawn ran on, and on, and on.

By the second night Hall had eaten all his tallow. He had also reefed
in his belt so that his stomach and spine seemed to be camping
together. The snow continued to fall. The trees swam past him as he
ran. And the snowdrifts lifted and fell as he jogged heavily forward.
Of course, he declared to himself, he was not dizzy. It was the snow
blindness or the drifts. He was well aware the second night that if he
would have let himself he would have dug a sleeping hole in the snow
and wrapped himself in a snow blanket and slept and slept; but he
thrashed himself awake, and set out again, dead heavy with sleep, weak
from fatigue, staggering from hunger; and the wings on his feet had
become weighted with lead.

He knew it was all up with him when he fell. He knew if he could get
only a half hour's sleep, it would freshen him up so he could go on.
Lots of winter travelers have known that in the North; and they have
taken the half hour's sleep; and another half hour's; and have never
wakened. Anyway, something wakened Hall. He heard the crackle of a
branch. That was nothing. Branches break to every storm, but this was
like branches breaking under a moccasin. It was unbelievable; there
was not the slightest odor of smoke, unless the dream odor of his own
delirious hunger; but not twenty paces ahead crackled an Indian fire,
surrounded by buckskin tepees, Indians warming themselves by the fire.

With an unspeakable revulsion of hope and hunger, Hall flung to his
feet and dashed into the middle of the encampment. Then a tingling
went over his body like the wakening from death, of frost to
life--blind stabbing terror obsessed his body and soul; for the fire
was smokeless, the figures were speechless, transparent, unaware of his
presence, very terribly still. His first thought was that he had come
on some camp hopeless from the disaster of massacre or starvation.
Then he knew this was no earthly camp. He could not tell how the
figures were clothed or what they were. Only he knew they were not
men. He did not even think of ghosts. All he knew was it was a death
fire, a death silence, death tepees, death figures. He fled through
the woods knowing only death was behind him--running and running, and
never stopping till he dropped exhausted across the fort doorstep at
two in the morning. He blurted out why he had come. Then he lapsed
unconscious. The