ps the gravest peril that threatens the traveler
in the North--the possibility of being detained by bad weather until
their food ran out. None of them spoke of this, but by tacit agreement
they made a very sparing breakfast, and ate nothing at noon. When
night came, and the storm still raged, their hearts were very heavy.

It lasted three days, and on the fourth morning it seemed scarcely
possible to face the somewhat lighter wind and break a trail through
the fresh snow. However, they dare risk no further delay. Strapping
on their packs, they struggled up the range. At nightfall they were
high among the rocks, and it was piercingly cold, but they got a few
hours' sleep in a clump of junipers, and struck the valley late the
next day. Finding shelter, they made camp, and after dividing a small
bannock between them they sat talking gloomily. Their fire had been
lighted to lee of a cluster of willows, and it burned sulkily because
the wood was green. Pungent smoke curled about them, and they shivered
in the draughts.

"How far do you make it to the logging camp?" Benson asked. "I'm
taking it for granted that the lumber gang's still there."

"A hundred and sixty miles," said Blake. "And we have food enough for
two days; say forty miles."

"About that; it depends on the snow."

Benson made no answer, and Harding was silent a while, sitting very
still with knitted brows.

"I can't see any way out," he said at last. "Can you?"

"Well," Blake answered quietly, "we'll go on as long as we are able.
Though I haven't had a rosy time, I have faith in my luck."

Conversation languished after this. The men had a small cake of
tobacco left, and they sat smoking and hiding their fears while the
wind moaned among the willows and thin snow blew past. The camp was
exposed, and, hungry and dejected as they were, they felt the stinging
cold. After an hour of moody silence, Harding suddenly leaned forward,
with a lifted hand.

"What's that?" he said sharply. "Didn't you hear it?"

For a few moments they heard only the rustle of the willows and the
swishing sound of driven snow; then a faint patter caught their ears,
and a crack like the snapping of a whip.

"A dog team!" cried Benson.

Springing to his feet, he set up a loud shout. It was answered in
English; and while they stood, shaken by excitement and intense relief,
several low shadowy shapes emerged from the gloom; then a tall figure
appeared, and after it