There was rush-grass on that stream—this he rememberedwell—but no timber， and he would follow it till its first trickleceased at a divide. He would cross this divide to the first trickleof another stream， flowing to the west， which he would followuntil it emptied into the river Dease， and here he would finda cache under an upturned canoe and piled over with manyrocks. And in this cache would be ammunition for his emptygun， fish-hooks and lines， a small net—all the utilities for thekilling and snaring of food. Also， he would find flour，—notmuch，—a piece of bacon， and some beans.
Bill would be waiting for him there， and they would paddleaway south down the Dease to the Great Bear Lake. And southacross the lake they would go， ever south， till they gainedthe Mackenzie. And south， still south， they would go， whilethe winter raced vainly after them， and the ice formed inthe eddies， and the days grew chill and crisp， south to somewarm Hudson Bay Company post， where timber grew tall andgenerous and there was grub without end.
These were the thoughts of the man as he strove onward. Buthard as he strove with his body， he strove equally hard with hismind， trying to think that Bill had not deserted him， that Billwould surely wait for him at the cache. He was compelled tothink this thought， or else there would not be any use to strive，and he would have lain down and died. And as the dim ballof the sun sank slowly into the northwest he covered everyinch—and many times—of his and Bill’s flight south beforethe downcoming winter. And he conned the grub of the cacheand the grub of the Hudson Bay Company post over and overagain. He had not eaten for two days； for a far longer time hehad not had all he wanted to eat. Often he stooped and pickedpale muskeg berries， put them into his mouth， and chewedand swallowed them. A muskeg berry is a bit of seed enclosedin a bit of water. In the mouth the water melts away and theseed chews sharp and bitter. The man knew there was nonourishment in the berries， but he chewed them patiently witha hope greater than knowledge and defying experience.
At nine o’clock he stubbed his toe on a rocky ledge， andfrom sheer weariness and weakness staggered and fell. He layfor some time， without movement， on his side. Then he slippedout of the pack-straps and clumsily dragged himself into asitting posture. It was not yet dark， and in the lingering twilighthe groped about among the rocks for shreds of dry moss.
When he had gathered a heap he built a fire，—a smouldering，smudgy fire，—and put a tin pot of water on to boil.
He unwrapped his pack and the first thing he did wasto count his matches. There were sixty-seven. He countedthem three times to make sure. He divided them into severalportions， wrapping them in oil paper， disposing of one bunch inhis empty tobacco pouch， of another bunch in the inside bandof his battered hat， of a third bunch under his shirt on the chest.
This accomplished， a panic came upon him， and he unwrappedthem all and counted them again. There were still sixty-seven.
He dried his wet foot-gear by the fire. The moccasins were insoggy shreds. The blanket socks were worn through in places，and his feet were raw and bleeding. His ankle was throbbing，and he gave it an examination. It had swollen to the size of hisknee. He tore a long strip from one of his two blankets andbound the ankle tightly. He tore other strips and bound themabout his feet to serve for both moccasins and socks. Then hedrank the pot of water， steaming hot， wound his watch， andcrawled between his blankets.
He slept like a dead man. The brief darkness aroundmidnight came and went. The sun arose in the northeast—atleast the day dawned in that quarter， for the sun was hidden bygray clouds.
At six o’clock he awoke， quietly lying on his back. He gazedstraight up into the gray sky and knew that he was hungry. Ashe rolled over on his elbow he was startled by a loud snort，and saw a bull caribou regarding him with alert curiosity. Theanimal was not mere than fifty feet away， and instantly into theman’s mind leaped the vision and the savor of a caribou steaksizzling and frying over a fire. Mechanically he reached forthe empty gun， drew a bead， and pulled the trigger. The bullsnorted and leaped away， his hoofs rattling and clattering as hefled across the ledges.
The man cursed and flung the empty gun from him. Hegroaned aloud as he started to drag himself to his feet. It was aslow and arduous task.
His joints were like rusty hinges. They worked harshlyin their sockets， with much friction， and each bending orunbending was accomplished only through a sheer exertion ofwill. When he finally gained his feet， another minute or so wasconsumed in straightening up， so that he could stand erect as aman should stand.
He crawled up a small knoll and surveyed the prospect.
There were no trees， no bushes， nothing but a gray sea of mossscarcely diversified by gray rocks， gray lakelets， and graystreamlets. The sky was gray. There was no sun nor hint ofsun. He had no idea of north， and he had forgotten the way hehad come to this spot the night before. But he was not lost. Heknew that. Soon he would come to the land of the little sticks.
He felt that it lay off to the left somewhere， not far—possiblyjust over the next low hill.
He went back to put his pack into shape for travelling. Heassured himself of the existence of his three separate parcelsof matches， though he did not stop to count them. But he didlinger， debating， over a squat moose-hide sack. It was notlarge. He could hide it under his two hands. He knew that itweighed fifteen pounds，—as much as all the rest of the pack，—and it worried him. He finally set it to one side and proceededto roll the pack. He paused to gaze at the squat moose-hidesack. He picked it up hastily with a defiant glance about him，as though the desolation were trying to rob him of it； and whenhe rose to his feet to stagger on into the day， it was included inthe pack on his back.
