e for pleasure. A mistake
might mean the difference between life and death for him and Win
Beresford.

For a stalker to determine the precise moment when to shoot is usually
a nice decision. Perhaps he can gain another dozen yards on his prey.
On the other hand, by moving closer he may startle them and lose his
chance. With so much at stake Tom felt for the second time in his life
the palsy that goes with buck fever.

A buck flung up his head and sniffed toward the hidden danger. Tom
knew the sign of startled doubt. Instantly his trembling ceased. He
aimed carefully and fired. The deer dropped in its tracks. Again he
fired--twice--three times. The last shot was a wild one, sent on a
hundredth chance. The herd vanished in the gathering darkness.

Tom swung forward exultant, his webs swishing swiftly over the snow.
He had dropped two. A second buck had fallen, risen, run fifty yards,
and come to earth again. The hunter's rifle was ready in case either
of the caribou sprang up. He found the first one dead, the other badly
wounded. At once he put the buck out of its pain.

West came slouching out of the woods at Tom's signal. Directed by the
officer, he made a fire and prepared for business. The stars were
out as they dressed the meat and cooked a large steak on the coals.
Afterward they hung the caribou from the limb of a spruce, drawing
them high enough so that no prowling wolves could reach the game.

With the coming of night the temperature had fallen and the snow
hardened. The crust held beneath their webs as they returned to
the sled. West wanted to camp where the deer had been killed. He
protested, with oaths, in his usual savage growl, that he was dead
tired and could not travel another step.

But he did. Beneath the stars the hunters mushed twenty miles back to
camp. They made much better progress by reason of the frozen trail and
the good meal they had eaten.

It was daybreak when Morse sighted the camp-fire smoke. His heart
leaped. Beresford must have been able to keep it alive with fuel.
Therefore he had been alive an hour or two ago at most.

Dogs and men trudged into camp ready to drop with fatigue.

Beresford, from where he lay, waved a hand at Tom. "Any luck?" he
asked.

"Two caribou."

"Good. I'll be ready for a steak to-morrow."

Morse looked at him anxiously. The glaze had left his eyes. He was no
longer burning up with fever. Both voice and movements seemed stronger
than they had been twe