at they began to notice something
peculiar about the trail they were following. Hitherto it had taken
a straight line, except when the bad terrain had made a detour
advisable. Now it swayed uncertainly, much as a drunken man staggers
down a street.

"What's wrong with him? It can't be liquor. Yet if he's not drunk,
what's got into him?" the soldier asked aloud, expecting no answer
that explained this phenomenon.

Tom shook his head. "See. The Indian's drivin' now. He follows a
straight enough line. You can tell he's at the tail line by the shape
of the webs. And West's still lurchin' along in a crazy way. He fell
down here. Is he sick, d' you reckon?"

"Give it up. Anyhow, he's in trouble. We'll know soon enough what it
is. Before night now we'll maybe see them."

Before they had gone another mile, the trail in the snow showed
another peculiarity. It made a wide half-circle and was heading south
again.

"He's given up. What's that mean? Out of grub, d' you think?"
Beresford asked.

"No. If they had been, he'd have made camp and gone hunting. We
crossed musk-ox sign to-day, you know."

"Righto. Can't be that. He must be sick."

They kept their eyes open. At any moment now they were likely to make
a discovery. Since they were in a country of scrubby brush they moved
cautiously to prevent an ambush. There was just a possibility that the
fugitive might have caught sight of them and be preparing an
unwelcome surprise. But it was a possibility that did not look like a
probability.

"Something gone 'way off in his plans," Morse said after they had
mushed on the south trail for an hour. "Looks like he don't know what
he's doing. Has he gone crazy?"

"Might be that. Men do in this country a lot. We don't know what a
tough time he's been through."

"I'll bet he's bucked blizzards aplenty in the last two months. Notice
one thing. West's trailin' after the guide like a lamb. He's makin' a
sure-enough drunk track. See how the point of his shoe caught the snow
there an' flung him down. The Cree stopped the sled right away so West
could get up. Why did he do that? And why don't West ever stray a foot
outa the path that's broke? That's not like him. He's always boss o'
the outfit--always leadin'."

Beresford was puzzled, too. "I don't get the situation. It's been
pretty nearly a thousand miles that we've been following this
trail--eight hundred, anyhow. All the way Bully West has stamped his
big foot on it as boss. No