I drank a cup of strong tea and some bone broth. I also
ate some of the really delicious rawhide (boiled with bones) and it
made me stronger--strong to write this. The boys have only tea and 1-2
pound of pea meal. Our parting was most affecting. I did not feel so
bad. George said: 'The Lord help us, Hubbard. With His help I'll save
you if I can get out.' Then he cried. So did Wallace. Wallace
stooped and kissed my cheek with his poor, sunken bearded lips--several
times--and I kissed his. George did the same, and I kissed his cheek.
Then they went away. God bless and help them.

"I am not so greatly in doubt as to the outcome. I believe they will
reach the flour and be strengthened, that Wallace will reach me, that
George will find Blake's cache and camp and send help. So I believe we
will all get out. My tent is pitched in open-tent style in front of a
big rock. The rock reflects the fire, but now it is going out because
of the rain. I think I shall let it go and close the tent till rain is
over, thus keeping out wind and saving wood. To-night or to-morrow
perhaps the weather will improve, so I can build fire, eat the rest of
my moccasins and have some more bone broth. Then I can boil my belt
and oil-tanned moccasins and a pair of cowhide mittens. They ought to
help some.

"I am not suffering. The acute pangs of hunger have given way to
indifference. I'm sleepy. I think death from starvation is not so
bad. But let no one suppose I expect it. I am prepared--that is all.
I think the boys will be able, with the Lord's help, to save me."

Bravo, Hubbard! nothing could down your spirit for long, could there?
So high was your spirit that you could not know it was impossible for
your poor old body to hold it any longer. Your hand was firm when you
wrote, b'y, speaking eloquently of that which most of all was you. "It
is a man's game," you said one day, in referring to our desperate
struggle to reach those we loved. Well, you played it to the limit,
b'y, and it was a man's death. My friend, I am proud of you.

* * * * *

Putting down the coverless book in which Hubbard's brave last words had
been written, I sat and thought. The tea, the bones and the other
things we had left with him had been found in the tent with the body.
The tent was closed as he said he was going to close it, and the snow,
which began to fall that Sunday night, had not been disturbed. He had
been