store of tobacco. Rea,
inordinate and inveterate smoker, had puffed away all the weed in
clouds of white, then had relapsed into gloom.

CHAPTER 10.

SUCCESS AND FAILURE

At last the marvel in the north dimmed, the obscure gray shade lifted,
the hope in the south brightened, and the mercury climbed reluctantly,
with a tyrant's hate to relinquish power.

Spring weather at twenty-five below zero! On April 12th a small band of
Indians made their appearance. Of the Dog tribe were they, an offcast
of the Great Slaves, according to Rea, and as motley, starring and
starved as the Yellow Knives. But they were friendly, which presupposed
ignorance of the white hunters, and Rea persuaded the strongest brave
to accompany them as guide northward after musk-oxen.

On April 16th, having given the Indians several caribou carcasses, and
assuring them that the cabin was protected by white spirits, Rea and
Jones, each with sled and train of dogs, started out after their guide,
who was similarly equipped, over the glistening snow toward the north.
They made sixty miles the first day, and pitched their Indian tepee on
the shores of Artillery Lake. Traveling northeast, they covered its
white waste of one hundred miles in two days. Then a day due north,
over rolling, monotonously snowy plain; devoid of rock, tree or shrub,
brought them into a country of the strangest, queerest little spruce
trees, very slender, and none of them over fifteen feet in height. A
primeval forest of saplings.

"Ditchen Nechila," said the guide.

"Land of Sticks Little," translated Rea.

An occasional reindeer was seen and numerous foxes and hares trotted
off into the woods, evincing more curiosity than fear. All were silver
white, even the reindeer, at a distance, taking the hue of the north.
Once a beautiful creature, unblemished as the snow it trod, ran up a
ridge and stood watching the hunters. It resembled a monster dog, only
it was inexpressibly more wild looking.

"Ho! Ho! there you are!" cried Rea, reaching for his Winchester. "Polar
wolf! Them's the white devils we'll have hell with."

As if the wolf understood, he lifted his white, sharp head and uttered
a bark or howl that was like nothing so much as a haunting, unearthly
mourn. The animal then merged into the white, as if he were really a
spirit of the world whence his cry seemed to come.

In this ancient forest of youthful appearing trees, the hunters cut
firewood to the full carrying