ve got to ascertain. I'll want
somebody's help in getting him out of this big coat."

None of them volunteered, but when Lane gave Walthew a sharp order
Blake and Harding joined them, and Harding afterward held the fur coat.
Blake noticed that he folded and arranged it on his arm with what
seemed needless care, though he first turned his back toward the
others. Lane was now engaged in examining the body, and the men stood
watching him, impressed by the scene. All round the narrow opening the
spruces rose darkly against the threatening sky, and in its midst the
sergeant bent over the still form. It made a dark blot on the pale
glimmer of the snow, and the white patch of the face was faintly
distinguishable in the fading light. The spruce tops stirred, shaking
down loose snow, which fell with a soft patter, and the wind blew
trails of it about.

"I can find nothing wrong," Lane said at last.

"Considering that you came across the man lying frozen after one of the
worst storms you remember, what did you expect to find?" Harding asked.

"Well," the sergeant answered dryly, "it's my duty to make
investigations. Though I didn't think it likely, there might have been
a knife cut or a bullet hole. One of you had better bring up the sled.
We can't break this ground without dynamite, but there are some loose
rocks along the foot of the spur."

The sled was brought and Clarke was gently placed on it, wrapped in his
fur coat. Then they took the traces and started for the ridge, where
they built up a few stones above the hollow in which they laid him. It
was quite dark when they had finished, and Lane made a gesture of
relief.

"Well," he said, "that's done, and he'll lie safely there. Rough on
him, but it's a hard country and many a good man has left his bones in
it. I guess we'll get back to camp."

They crossed the snow in silence, trailing the empty sled, and for a
while after they reached camp nobody spoke. Lane sat near the fire,
where the light fell on the book in which he wrote with a pencil held
awkwardly in his mittened hand, while Blake watched him and mused. He
had no cause to regret Clarke's death, but he felt some pity for the
man. Gifted with high ability, he had, through no fault of his own,
been driven out of a profession in which he was keenly interested, and
made an outcast. His subsequent life had been a hard and evil one, but
it had ended in a tragic manner; and this was made all the more