where he had been walking, and retreated several paces back
along the trail. The creek he knew was frozen clear to the bottom--no
creek could contain water in that arctic winter--but he knew also that
there were springs that bubbled out from the hillsides and ran along
under the snow and on top the ice of the creek. He knew that the coldest
snaps never froze these springs, and he knew likewise their danger. They
were traps. They hid pools of water under the snow that might be three
inches deep, or three feet. Sometimes a skin of ice half an inch thick
covered them, and in turn was covered by the snow. Sometimes there were
alternate layers of water and ice-skin, so that when one broke through he
kept on breaking through for a while, sometimes wetting himself to the
waist.

That was why he had shied in such panic. He had felt the give under his
feet and heard the crackle of a snow-hidden ice-skin. And to get his
feet wet in such a temperature meant trouble and danger. At the very
least it meant delay, for he would be forced to stop and build a fire,
and under its protection to bare his feet while he dried his socks and
moccasins. He stood and studied the creek-bed and its banks, and decided
that the flow of water came from the right. He reflected awhile, rubbing
his nose and cheeks, then skirted to the left, stepping gingerly and
testing the footing for each step. Once clear of the danger, he took a
fresh chew of tobacco and swung along at his four-mile gait.

In the course of the next two hours he came upon several similar traps.
Usually the snow above the hidden pools had a sunken, candied appearance
that advertised the danger. Once again, however, he had a close call;
and once, suspecting danger, he compelled the dog to go on in front. The
dog did not want to go. It hung back until the man shoved it forward,
and then it went quickly across the white, unbroken surface. Suddenly it
broke through, floundered to one side, and got away to firmer footing. It
had wet its forefeet and legs, and almost immediately the water that
clung to it turned to ice. It made quick efforts to lick the ice off its
legs, then dropped down in the snow and began to bite out the ice that
had formed between the toes. This was a matter of instinct. To permit
the ice to remain would mean sore feet. It did not know this. It merely
obeyed the mysterious prompting that arose from the deep crypts of its
being. But the man knew,