was the brief Indian Summer of the high latitudes. It might last a
week. To-morrow or next day it might he gone.

In the afternoon the man came upon a trail. It was of another man,
who did not walk, but who dragged himself on all fours. The man
thought it might be Bill, but he thought in a dull, uninterested
way. He had no curiosity. In fact, sensation and emotion had left
him. He was no longer susceptible to pain. Stomach and nerves had
gone to sleep. Yet the life that was in him drove him on. He was
very weary, but it refused to die. It was because it refused to
die that he still ate muskeg berries and minnows, drank his hot
water, and kept a wary eye on the sick wolf.

He followed the trail of the other man who dragged himself along,
and soon came to the end of it - a few fresh-picked bones where the
soggy moss was marked by the foot-pads of many wolves. He saw a
squat moose-hide sack, mate to his own, which had been torn by
sharp teeth. He picked it up, though its weight was almost too
much for his feeble fingers. Bill had carried it to the last. Ha!
ha! He would have the laugh on Bill. He would survive and carry
it to the ship in the shining sea. His mirth was hoarse and
ghastly, like a raven's croak, and the sick wolf joined him,
howling lugubriously. The man ceased suddenly. How could he have
the laugh on Bill if that were Bill; if those bones, so pinky-white
and clean, were Bill?

He turned away. Well, Bill had deserted him; but he would not take
the gold, nor would he suck Bill's bones. Bill would have, though,
had it been the other way around, he mused as he staggered on.