object, something that was no more than a thin black streak to
Wabi's blinded eyes but which he knew was the dog mail on its way to
civilization. He tried to shout, but the sound that fell from his lips
could not have been heard a hundred paces away; his limbs tottered
beneath him; his feet seemed suddenly to turn into lead, and he sank
helpless into the snow. The faithful pack crowded about him licking
his face and hands, their hot breath escaping between their gaping
jaws like hissing steam For a few moments it seemed to the Indian
youth that day had suddenly turned into night. His eyes closed, the
panting of the dogs came to him more and more faintly, as if they were
moving away; he felt himself sinking, sinking slowly down into utter
blackness.

Desperately he fought to bring himself back into life. There was one
more chance--just one! He heard the dogs again, he felt their tongues
upon his hands and face, and he dragged himself to his knees, groping
out with his hands like one who had gone blind. A few feet away was
the sledge, and out there, far beyond his vision now, was the Hudson
Bay mail!

Foot by foot he drew himself out from among the tangle of dogs. He
reached the sledge, and his fingers gripped convulsively at the cold
steel of his rifle. One more chance! One more chance! The words--the
thought--filled his brain, and he raised the rifle to his shoulder,
pointing its muzzle up to the sky so that he would not harm the dogs.
And then, once, twice, five times he fired into the air, and at the
end of the fifth shot he drew fresh cartridges from his belt,
and fired again and again, until the black streak far out in the
wilderness of ice and snow stopped in its progress--and turned back.
And still the sharp signals rang out again and again, until the barrel