.
This time the pony refused to answer the whip. Its master unloaded pack
and saddle. He tried coaxing; he tried the whip.

"Come, Old-Timer. One plunge, and you'll make it yet," he urged.

The pack-horse turned upon him dumb eyes of reproach, struggled to free
its limbs from the mud, and sank down helplessly. It had traveled its
last yard on the long Alaska trails.

After the sound of the shot had died away, Gordon struggled with the
pack to the nearest hummock. He cut holes in a gunny-sack to fit his
shoulders and packed into it his blankets, a saucepan, the beans, the
coffee, and the diminished handful of flour. Into it went too the three
slices of bacon that were left.

He hoisted the pack to his back and slipped his arms through the slits
he had made. Painfully he labored forward over the quivering peat. Every
weary muscle revolted at the demands his will imposed upon it. He drew
on the last ounce of his strength and staggered forward. Sometimes he
stumbled and went down into the oozing mud, minded to stay there and
be done with the struggle. But the urge of life drove him to his feet
again. It sent him pitching forward drunkenly. It carried him for weary
miles after he despaired of ever covering another hundred yards.

With old, half-forgotten signals from the football field he spurred his
will. Perhaps his mind was already beginning to wander, though through
it all he held steadily to the direction that alone could save him.

He clapped his hands feebly and stooped for the plunge at the line of
the enemy. "'Attaboy, Gord--'attaboy--nine, eleven, seventeen. Hit 'er
low, you Elliot."

When at last he went down to stay it was in an exhaustion so complete
that not even his indomitable will could lash him to his feet again.
For an hour he lay in a stupor, never stirring even to fight the swarm
of mosquitoes that buzzed about him.

Toward evening he sat up and undid the pack from his back. The matches,
in a tin box wrapped carefully with oilskin, were still perfectly dry.
Soon he had a fire going and coffee boiling in the frying-pan. From
the tin cup he carried strung on his belt he drank the coffee. It went
through him like strong liquor. He warmed some beans and fried himself a
slice of bacon, sopping up the grease with a cold biscuit left over from
the day before.

Again he slept for a few hours. He had wound his watch mechanically
and it showed him four o'clock when he took up the trail once more.
In Sea