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vainly after them； and the ice formed in the eddies； and the days
grew chill and crisp； south to some warm Hudson Bay Company post；
where timber grew tall and generous and there was grub without end。
These were the thoughts of the man as he strove onward。 But hard
as he strove with his body； he strove equally hard with his mind；
trying to think that Bill had not deserted him； that Bill would
surely wait for him at the cache。 He was compelled to think this
thought； or else there would not be any use to strive； and he would
have lain down and died。 And as the dim ball of the sun sank
slowly into the northwest he covered every inch … and many times …
of his and Bill's flight south before the downcoming winter。 And
he conned the grub of the cache and the grub of the Hudson Bay
Company post over and over again。 He had not eaten for two days；
for a far longer time he had not had all he wanted to eat。 Often
he stooped and picked pale muskeg berries； put them into his mouth；
and chewed and swallowed them。 A muskeg berry is a bit of seed
enclosed in a bit of water。 In the mouth the water melts away and
the seed chews sharp and bitter。 The man knew there was no
nourishment in the berries； but he chewed them patiently with a
hope greater than knowledge and defying experience。
At nine o'clock he stubbed his toe on a rocky ledge； and from sheer
weariness and weakness staggered and fell。 He lay for some time；
without movement； on his side。 Then he slipped out of the pack…
straps and clumsily dragged himself into a sitting posture。 It was
not yet dark； and in the lingering twilight he groped about among
the rocks for shreds of dry moss。 When he had gathered a heap he
built a fire； … a smouldering； smudgy fire； … and put a tin pot of
water on to boil。
He unwrapped his pack and the first thing he did was to count his
matches。 There were sixty…seven。 He counted them three times to
make sure。 He divided them into several portions； wrapping them in
oil paper； disposing of one bunch in his empty tobacco pouch； of
another bunch in the inside band of his battered hat； of a third
bunch under his shirt on the chest。 This accomplished； a panic
came upon him； and he unwrapped them all and counted them again。
There were still sixty…seven。
He dried his wet foot…gear by the fire。 The moccasins were in
soggy shreds。 The blanket socks were worn through in places； and
his feet were raw and bleeding。 His ankle was throbbing； and he
gave it an examination。 It had swollen to the size of his knee。
He tore a long strip from one of his two blankets and bound the
ankle tightly。 He tore other strips and bound them about his feet
to serve for both moccasins and socks。 Then he drank the pot of
water； steaming hot； wound his watch； and crawled between his
blankets。
He slept like a dead man。 The brief darkness around midnight came
and went。 The sun arose in the northeast … at least the day dawned
in that quarter； for the sun was hidden by gray clouds。
At six o'clock he awoke； quietly lying on his back。 He gazed
straight up into the gray sky and knew that he was hungry。 As he
rolled over on his elbow he was startled by a loud snort； and saw a
bull caribou regarding him with alert curiosity。 The animal was
not mere than fifty feet away； and instantly into the man's mind
leaped the vision and the savor of a caribou steak sizzling and
frying over a fire。 Mechanically he reached for the empty gun；
drew a bead； and pulled the trigger。 The bull snorted and leaped
away； his hoofs rattling and clattering as he fled across the
ledges。
The man cursed and flung the empty gun from him。 He groaned aloud
as he started to drag himself to his feet。 It was a slow and
arduous task。
His joints were like rusty hinges。 They worked harshly in their
sockets； with much friction； and each bending or unbending was
accomplished only through a sheer exertion of will。 When he
finally gained his feet； another minute or so was consumed in
straightening up； so that he could stand erect as a man should
stand。
He crawled up a small knoll and surveyed the prospect。 There were
no trees； no bushes； nothing but a gray sea of moss scarcely
diversified by gray rocks； gray lakelets； and gray streamlets。 The
sky was gray。 There was no sun nor hint of sun。 He had no idea of
north； and he had forgotten the way he had come to this spot the
night before。 But he was not lost。 He knew that。 Soon he would
come to the land of the little sticks。 He felt that it lay off to
the left somewhere； not far … possibly just over the next low hill。
He went back to put his pack into shape for travelling。 He assured
himself of the existence of his three separate parcels of matches；
though he did not stop to count them。 But he did linger； debating；
over a squat moose…hide sack。 It was not large。 He could hide it
under his two hands。 He knew that it weighed fifteen pounds； … as
much as all the rest of the pack； … and it worried him。 He finally
set it to one side and proceeded to roll the pack。 He paused to
gaze at the squat moose…hide sack。 He picked it up hastily with a
defiant glance about him； as though the desolation were trying to
rob him of it； and when he rose to his feet to stagger on into the
day； it was included in the pack on his back。
He bore away to the left； stopping now and again to eat muskeg
berries。 His ankle had stiffened； his limp was more pronounced；
but the pain of it was as nothing compared with the pain of his
stomach。 The hunger pangs were sharp。 They gnawed and gnawed
until he could not keep his mind steady on the course he must
pursue to gain the land of little sticks。 The muskeg berries did
not allay this gnawing； while they made his tongue and the roof of
his mouth sore with their irritating bite。
He came upon a valley where rock ptarmigan rose on whirring wings
from the ledges and muskegs。 Ker … ker … ker was the cry they
made。 He threw stones at them； but could not hit them。 He placed
his pack on the ground and stalked them as a cat stalks a sparrow。
The sharp rocks cut through his pants' legs till his knees left a
trail of blood； but the hurt was lost in the hurt of his hunger。
He squirmed over the wet moss； saturating his clothes and chilling
his body； but he was not aware of it； so great was his fever for
food。 And always the ptarmigan rose； whirring； before him； till
their ker … ker … ker became a mock to him； and he cursed them and
cried aloud at them with their own cry。
Once he crawled upon one that must have been asleep。 He did not
see it till it shot up in his face from its rocky nook。 He made a
clutch as startled as was the rise of the ptarmigan； and there
remained in his hand three tail…feathers。 As he watched its flight
he hated it； as though it had done him some terr