ogs swerved, as if attracted by
something, and the half-breed struck the nearest dog and drove them on.

"That was curious," said Private Walthew. "It was old Chasseur who led
them off, and he's not given to playing tricks."

"A dead mink or beaver in the snow," the sergeant suggested. "I didn't
notice anything, but they have a keen scent. Anyhow, let's get into
camp."

They found a nook among the rocks, and Emile loosed the dogs and threw
them some frozen fish while the men had supper. It was a heavy,
lowering evening, and the bitter air was filled with the murmur of the
spruces as the wind passed over them. Though the light was fading,
they kept their sharpness of outline, rising, black and ragged, from a
sweep of chill, lifeless gray. When the meal was nearly finished, Lane
looked round the camp.

"Where are the dogs?" he asked. "They're very quiet."

"I leaf zem _la bas_," explained Emile, waving his hand toward a
neighboring hollow. Then, moving a few paces forward, he exclaimed:
"Ah! _les coquins_!"

"Looks as if they'd bolted," Walthew said. "I think I know where to
find them."

He left the camp with Emile, and presently they heard the half-breed
threatening the dogs; then Walthew's voice reached them and there was a
hoarse and urgent tone in it. Springing up, they ran back along the
trail and found Emile keeping off the dogs while Walthew bent over a
dark object that lay half revealed in the clawed up snow. At first
Harding saw only a patch or two of ragged fur that looked as if it
belonged to an animal; then with a shock he caught the outline of a
man's shoulder and arm. The rest of the party gathered round,
breathless after their haste, and when Lane spoke there was grave
authority in his voice.

"Give me a hand, boys. We have to get him out."

They did so with mingled compassion and reluctance, though Harding was
sensible of a curious strained expectation. Soon the body lay clear of
the snow, and the dim light fell on the frozen face.

"It's Clarke!" Blake cried.

"Sure," said Harding gravely. "I'm not surprised."

"Then you knew him?" Lane's tone was sharp.

Benson answered him.

"Yes; I knew him pretty well. He lived at Sweetwater, where we're
going. I can give you any particulars you want."

"I'll ask you later." The sergeant knelt down and carefully studied
the dead man's pose. "Looks as if he'd been caught in the blizzard and
died of exposure; but that's a thing I'