* * * * *

But the terrible chill could not subdue the flame of purpose burning
in Hager's mind. That part of him remained keenly alert. The sled was
moving in the direction of the stream, and he was careful to judge the
distance carefully. He didn't want to approach too close. At just the
right moment he turned the sled at angle back toward the way from
which it had come. It was his plan to keep zigzagging, approaching the
stream and then retreating, always at a tangent. A great deal of time
would be consumed in this way, with very little actual forward
progress toward Moose Gulch.

He repeated this maneuver again and again. Cahill roused a few times
to inquire weakly about their progress. Always Hager gave the same
answer.

"We're getting there, Ben. It won't be long now. Don't you worry."

After that Cahill was silent. It seemed evident to Hager that the man
was sinking rapidly. But not as rapidly as Hager wished. He knew he
couldn't bear the paralyzing cold much longer, and his hatred of it
grew.

The sled reached a group of slab-like rock outcroppings that offered
shelter from the slashing wind. Hager stopped the sled behind their
protection for a short rest. The additional delay suited his plans.

While the dogs huddled together in the snow, Hager went around the
sled to get the pack. He glanced at Cahill's face--and his muscles
became tense. Cahill's eyes were open. Cahill was watching him with a
terrible steadiness and a soul-searing clarity. Cahill ... _knew_.

Hager realized that Cahill must have been awake for quite some time,
watching the actions of the sled. The man had clearly discovered
Hager's deception.

Hager felt transfixed by the accusing brightness in the other's eyes.
He sensed that his guilt was written vividly and unmistakably in his
face. He fumbled for words that would form an excuse, an apology, some
sort of plausible lie--anything that would remove the dreadful
knowledge in Cahill's eyes. But no words came.

After a strained, bitter moment Cahill spoke. His voice was low, yet
somehow curiously distinct. "You're trying to kill me, Matt. I see it
now. You aren't going straight toward Moose Gulch. You're tracking
back and forth to waste time. You ... want me to die!"

"That isn't true," Hager blurted. "I ... I got lost. The storm and
cold got me mixed up."

Cahill went on as though he hadn't heard. "It's the furs, isn't it,
Matt? You want all the