Eskimo. Shouting and cursing, he lashed the pack, and in a moment he saw
a huge, open-jawed shadow rise up on the far side and start off into the
open starlight. He sprang back to his rifle. Twice he fired at the
retreating shadow before it disappeared. And the Eskimo dogs made no
movement to follow. Five of the fifteen were dead. The remaining ten,
torn and bleeding--three of them with legs that dragged in the bloody
snow--gathered in a whipped and whimpering group. And the Eskimos,
shivering in their fear of this devil that had entered into the body of
Wapi, the Walrus, failed to respond to Rydal's command when he pointed to
the red trail that ran out under the stars.

At Fort Confidence, one hundred and fifty miles to the south, there was
day--day that was like cold, gray dawn, the day one finds just beyond the
edge of the Arctic night, in which the sun hangs like a pale lantern over
the far southern horizon. In a log-built room that faced this bit of
glorious red glow lay Peter, bolstered up in his bed so that he could see
it until it faded from the sky. There was a new light in his face, and
there was something of the old Peter back in his eyes. Watching the final
glow with him was Dolores. It was their second day.

Into this world, in the twilight that was falling swiftly as they watched
the setting of the sun, came Wapi, the Walrus. Blinded in the eye, gaunt
with hunger and exhaustion, covered with wounds, and with his great heart
almost ready to die, he came at last to the river across which lay the
barracks. His vision was nearly gone, but under his nose he could still
smell faintly the trail he was following until the last. It led him
across the river. And in darkness it brought him to a door.

After a little the door opened, and with its opening came at last the
fulfilment of the promise of his dreams--hope, happiness, things to live