"You keep right on, Henry, I'm goin' to see what I can see."

"You'd better stick by the sled," his partner protested. "You've only
got three cartridges, an' there's no tellin' what might happen."

"Who's croaking now?" Bill demanded triumphantly.

Henry made no reply, and plodded on alone, though often he cast anxious
glances back into the grey solitude where his partner had disappeared. An
hour later, taking advantage of the cut-offs around which the sled had to
go, Bill arrived.

"They're scattered an' rangin' along wide," he said: "keeping up with us
an' lookin' for game at the same time. You see, they're sure of us, only
they know they've got to wait to get us. In the meantime they're willin'
to pick up anything eatable that comes handy."

"You mean they _think_ they're sure of us," Henry objected pointedly.

But Bill ignored him. "I seen some of them. They're pretty thin. They
ain't had a bite in weeks I reckon, outside of Fatty an' Frog an'
Spanker; an' there's so many of 'em that that didn't go far. They're
remarkable thin. Their ribs is like wash-boards, an' their stomachs is
right up against their backbones. They're pretty desperate, I can tell
you. They'll be goin' mad, yet, an' then watch out."

A few minutes later, Henry, who was now travelling behind the sled,
emitted a low, warning whistle. Bill turned and looked, then quietly
stopped the dogs. To the rear, from around the last bend and plainly