could be still
standing. There! They were at work upon it now. He could hear the
shaman grunt as he piled it on the sled. A child whimpered, and a
woman soothed it with soft, crooning gutturals. Little Koo-tee, the
old man thought, a fretful child, and not overstrong. It would die
soon, perhaps, and they would burn a hole through the frozen tundra
and pile rocks above to keep the wolverines away. Well, what did it
matter? A few years at best, and as many an empty belly as a full one.
And in the end, Death waited, ever-hungry and hungriest of them all.

What was that? Oh, the men lashing the sleds and drawing tight the
thongs. He listened, who would listen no more. The whip-lashes snarled
and bit among the dogs. Hear them whine! How they hated the work and
the trail! They were off! Sled after sled churned slowly away into the
silence. They were gone. They had passed out of his life, and he faced
the last bitter hour alone. No. The snow crunched beneath a moccasin;
a man stood beside him; upon his head a hand rested gently. His son
was good to do this thing. He remembered other old men whose sons had
not waited after the tribe. But his son had. He wandered away into the
past, till the young man's voice brought him back.

"Is it well with you?" he asked.

And the old man answered, "It is well."

"There be wood beside you," the younger man continued, "and the fire
burns bright. The morning is gray, and the cold has broken. It will
snow presently. Even now is it snowing."

"Ay, even now is it snowing."

"The tribesmen hurry. Their bales are heavy, and their bellies flat
with lack of feasting. The trail is long and they travel fast. I go
now. It is well?"

"It is well. I am as a last year's leaf, clinging lightly to the stem.
The first breath that blows, and I fall. My voice is become like an
old woman's. My eyes no longer show me the way of my feet, and my feet
are heavy, and I am tired. It is well."

He bowed his head in content till the last noise of the complaining
snow had died away, and he knew his son was beyond recall. Then his
hand crept out in haste to the wood. It alone stood between him and
the eternity that yawned in upon him. At last the measure of his life
was a handful of fagots. One by one they would go to feed the fire,
and just so, step by step, death would creep upon him. When the last
stick had surrendered up its heat, the frost would begin to gather
strength. First his feet would yield, then h