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sick wolf。 The animal dragged itself reluctantly out of his way；
licking its chops with a tongue which seemed hardly to have the
strength to curl。 The man noticed that the tongue was not the
customary healthy red。 It was a yellowish brown and seemed coated
with a rough and half…dry mucus。
After he had drunk a quart of hot water the man found he was able
to stand； and even to walk as well as a dying man might be supposed
to walk。 Every minute or so he was compelled to rest。 His steps
were feeble and uncertain； just as the wolf's that trailed him were
feeble and uncertain； and that night； when the shining sea was
blotted out by blackness； he knew he was nearer to it by no more
than four miles。
Throughout the night he heard the cough of the sick wolf； and now
and then the squawking of the caribou calves。 There was life all
around him； but it was strong life； very much alive and well； and
he knew the sick wolf clung to the sick man's trail in the hope
that the man would die first。 In the morning； on opening his eyes；
he beheld it regarding him with a wistful and hungry stare。 It
stood crouched； with tail between its legs； like a miserable and
woe…begone dog。 It shivered in the chill morning wind； and grinned
dispiritedly when the man spoke to it in a voice that achieved no
more than a hoarse whisper。
The sun rose brightly； and all morning the man tottered and fell
toward the ship on the shining sea。 The weather was perfect。 It
was the brief Indian Summer of the high latitudes。 It might last a
week。 To…morrow or next day it might he gone。
In the afternoon the man came upon a trail。 It was of another man；
who did not walk； but who dragged himself on all fours。 The man
thought it might be Bill； but he thought in a dull； uninterested
way。 He had no curiosity。 In fact； sensation and emotion had left
him。 He was no longer susceptible to pain。 Stomach and nerves had
gone to sleep。 Yet the life that was in him drove him on。 He was
very weary； but it refused to die。 It was because it refused to
die that he still ate muskeg berries and minnows； drank his hot
water； and kept a wary eye on the sick wolf。
He followed the trail of the other man who dragged himself along；
and soon came to the end of it … a few fresh…picked bones where the
soggy moss was marked by the foot…pads of many wolves。 He saw a
squat moose…hide sack； mate to his own； which had been torn by
sharp teeth。 He picked it up； though its weight was almost too
much for his feeble fingers。 Bill had carried it to the last。 Ha！
ha！ He would have the laugh on Bill。 He would survive and carry
it to the ship in the shining sea。 His mirth was hoarse and
ghastly； like a raven's croak； and the sick wolf joined him；
howling lugubriously。 The man ceased suddenly。 How could he have
the laugh on Bill if that were Bill； if those bones； so pinky…white
and clean； were Bill？
He turned away。 Well； Bill had deserted him； but he would not take
the gold； nor would he suck Bill's bones。 Bill would have； though；
had it been the other way around； he mused as he staggered on。
He came to a pool of water。 Stooping over in quest of minnows； he
jerked his head back as though he had been stung。 He had caught
sight of his reflected face。 So horrible was it that sensibility
awoke long enough to be shocked。 There were three minnows in the
pool； which was too large to drain； and after several ineffectual
attempts to catch them in the tin bucket he forbore。 He was
afraid； because of his great weakness； that he might fall in and
drown。 It was for this reason that he did not trust himself to the
river astride one of the many drift…logs which lined its sand…
spits。
That day he decreased the distance between him and the ship by
three miles； the next day by two … for he was crawling now as Bill
had crawled； and the end of the fifth day found the ship still
seven miles away and him unable to make even a mile a day。 Still
the Indian Summer held on； and he continued to crawl and faint；
turn and turn about； and ever the sick wolf coughed and wheezed at
his heels。 His knees had become raw meat like his feet； and though
he padded them with the shirt from his back it was a red track he
left behind him on the moss and stones。 Once； glancing back； he
saw the wolf licking hungrily his bleeding trail； and he saw
sharply what his own end might be … unless … unless he could get
the wolf。 Then began as grim a tragedy of existence as was ever
played … a sick man that crawled； a sick wolf that limped； two
creatures dragging their dying carcasses across the desolation and
hunting each other's lives。
Had it been a well wolf； it would not have mattered so much to the
man； but the thought of going to feed the maw of that loathsome and
all but dead thing was repugnant to him。 He was finicky。 His mind
had begun to wander again； and to be perplexed by hallucinations；
while his lucid intervals grew rarer and shorter。
He was awakened once from a faint by a wheeze close in his ear。
The wolf leaped lamely back； losing its footing and falling in its
weakness。 It was ludicrous； but he was not amused。 Nor was he
even afraid。 He was too far gone for that。 But his mind was for
the moment clear； and he lay and considered。 The ship was no more
than four miles away。 He could see it quite distinctly when he
rubbed the mists out of his eyes； and he could see the white sail
of a small boat cutting the water of the shining sea。 But he could
never crawl those four miles。 He knew that； and was very calm in
the knowledge。 He knew that he could not crawl half a mile。 And
yet he wanted to live。 It was unreasonable that he should die
after all he had undergone。 Fate asked too much of him。 And；
dying； he declined to die。 It was stark madness； perhaps； but in
the very grip of Death he defied Death and refused to die。
He closed his eyes and composed himself with infinite precaution。
He steeled himself to keep above the suffocating languor that
lapped like a rising tide through all the wells of his being。 It
was very like a sea； this deadly languor； that rose and rose and
drowned his consciousness bit by bit。 Sometimes he was all but
submerged； swimming through oblivion with a faltering stroke； and
again； by some strange alchemy of soul； he would find another shred
of will and strike out more strongly。
Without movement he lay on his back； and he could hear； slowly
drawing near and nearer； the wheezing intake and output of the sick
wolf's breath。 It drew closer； ever closer； through an infinitude
of time； and he did not move。 It was at his ear。 The harsh dry
tongue grated like sandpaper against his cheek。 His hands shot out
… or at least he willed them to shoot out。 The fingers were curved
like talons； but they closed on empty air。 Swiftness and