f timber before
darkness came. There was no sound but the crunch of their snowshoes, the
panting of the dogs, the rasping of the sleigh. When they paused the
silence seemed to fall on them like a blanket. There was something awful
in the quality of this deathly silence. It was as if something material,
something tangible, hovered over them, closed in on them, choked them,
throttled them. It was almost like a Presence.

Weary and worn were men and dogs as they struggled onwards in the
growing gloom, but because of the feeling in his heart the little man no
longer was conscious of bodily pain. It was black murder that raged
there.

With straining sinews and bones that cracked, the dogs bent to a heavy
pull, while at the least sign of shirking down swished the relentless
whip. And the big man, as if proud of his strength, gazed insolently
round on the Wild. He was at home in this land, this stark wolf-land, so
callous, so cruel. Was he not cruel, too? Surely this land cowered
before him. Its hardships could not daunt him, nor its terrors dismay.
As he urged on his bloody-footed dogs, he exulted greatly. Of all Men of
the High North was he not king?

At last they reached the forest fringe, and after a few harsh directions
he had the little man making camp. The little man worked with a strange
willingness. All his taciturnity had gone. As he gathered the firewood
and filled the Yukon stove, he hummed a merry air. He had the water
boiling and soon there was the fragrance of tea in the little tent. He
produced sourdough bread (which he fried in bacon fat), and some dried
moose-meat.

To men of the trail this was a treat. They ate ravenously, but they did
not speak. Yet the little man was oddly cheerful. Time and again the big
man looked at him suspiciously. Outside it was a steely night, with an
icicle of a moon. The cold leapt on one savagely. To step from the tent
was like plunging into icy water, yet within those canvas walls the men
were warm and snug. The stove crackled its cheer. A grease-light
sputtered, and by its rays the little man was mending his ice-stiffened
moccasins. He hummed an Irish air, and he seemed to be tickled with some
thought he had.

"Stop that tune," growled the other. "If you don't know anything else,
cut it out. I'm sick of it."

The little man shut up meekly. Again there was silence, broken by a
whining and a scratching outside. It was the five dogs crying for their
supper, crying for the