PART I : THE TRAIL OF THE MEAT

Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. Therntrees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering ofrnfrost, and they seemed to lean towards each other, black and ominous,rnin the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The landrnitself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and coldrnthat the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint inrnit of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness—arnlaughter that was mirthless as the smile of the sphinx, a laughter coldrnas the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was thernmasterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at thernfutility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage,rnfrozen-hearted Northland Wild.rnrnBut there _was_ life, abroad in the land and defiant. Down the frozenrnwaterway toiled a string of wolfish dogs. Their bristly fur was rimedrnwith frost. Their breath froze in the air as it left their mouths,rnspouting forth in spumes of vapour that settled upon the hair of theirrnbodies and formed into crystals of frost. Leather harness was on therndogs, and leather traces attached them to a sled which dragged alongrnbehind. The sled was without runners. It was made of stout birch-bark,rnand its full surface rested on the snow. The front end of the sled wasrnturned up, like a scroll, in order to force down and under the bore ofrnsoft snow that surged like a wave before it. On the sled, securelyrnlashed, was a long and narrow oblong box. There were other things onrnthe sled—blankets, an axe, and a coffee-pot and frying-pan; butrnprominent, occupying most of the space, was the long and narrow oblongrnbox.rnrnIn advance of the dogs, on wide snowshoes, toiled a man. At the rear ofrnthe sled toiled a second man. On the sled, in the box, lay a third manrnwhose toil was over,—a man whom the Wild had conquered and beaten downrnuntil he would never move nor struggle again. It is not the way of thernWild to like movement. Life is an offence to it, for life is movement;rnand the Wild aims always to destroy movement. It freezes the water tornprevent it running to the sea; it drives the sap out of the trees tillrnthey are frozen to their mighty hearts; and most ferociously andrnterribly of all does the Wild harry and crush into submission man—manrnwho is the most restless of life, ever in revolt against the dictumrnthat all movement must in the end come to the cessation of movement.rnrnBut at front and rear, unawed and indomitable, toiled the two men whornwere not yet dead. Their bodies were covered with fur and soft-tannedrnleather. Eyelashes and cheeks and lips were so coated with the crystalsrnfrom their frozen breath that their faces were not discernible. Thisrngave them the seeming of ghostly masques, undertakers in a spectralrnworld at the funeral of some ghost. But under it all they were men,rnpenetrating the land of desolation and mockery and silence, punyrnadventurers bent on colossal adventure, pitting themselves against thernmight of a world as remote and alien and pulseless as the abysses ofrnspace.rnrnThey travelled on without speech, saving their breath for the work ofrntheir bodies. On every side was the silence, pressing upon them with arntangible presence. It affected their minds as the many atmospheres ofrndeep water affect the body of the diver. It crushed them with thernweight of unending vastness and unalterable decree. It crushed themrninto the remotest recesses of their own minds, pressing out of them,rnlike juices from the grape, all the false ardours and exaltations andrnundue self-values of the human soul, until they perceived themselvesrnfinite and small, specks and motes, moving with weak cunning and littlernwisdom amidst the play and inter-play of the great blind elements andrnforces.rnrnAn hour went by, and a second hour. The pale light of the short sunlessrnday was beginning to fade, when a faint far cry arose on the still air.rnIt soared upward with a swift rush, till it reached its topmost note,rnwhere it persisted, palpitant and tense, and then slowly died away. Itrnmight have been a lost soul wailing, had it not been invested with arncertain sad fierceness and hungry eagerness. The front man turned hisrnhead until his eyes met the eyes of the man behind. And then, acrossrnthe narrow oblong box, each nodded to the other.rnrnA second cry arose, piercing the silence with needle-like shrillness.rnBoth men located the sound. It was to the rear, somewhere in the snowrnexpanse they had just traversed. A third and answering cry arose, alsornto the rear and to the left of the second cry.rnrn“They’re after us, Bill,” said the man at the front.rnrnHis voice sounded hoarse and unreal, and he had spoken with apparentrneffort.rnrn“Meat is scarce,” answered his comrade. “I ain’t seen a rabbit sign forrndays.”rnrnThereafter they spoke no more, though their ears were keen for thernhunting-cries that continued to rise behind them.rnrnAt the fall of darkness they swung the dogs into a cluster of sprucerntrees on the edge of the waterway and made a camp. The coffin, at thernside of the fire, served for seat and table. The wolf-dogs, clusteredrnon the far side of the fire, snarled and bickered among themselves, butrnevinced no inclination to stray off into the darkness.rnrn“Seems to me, Henry, they’re stayin’ remarkable close to camp,” Billrncommented.rnrnHenry, squatting over the fire and settling the pot of coffee with arnpiece of ice, nodded. Nor did he speak till he had taken his seat onrnthe coffin and begun to eat.rnrn“They know where their hides is safe,” he said. “They’d sooner eat grubrnthan be grub. They’re pretty wise, them dogs.”rnrnBill shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know.”rnrnHis comrade looked at him curiously. “First time I ever heard you sayrnanything about their not bein’ wise.”rnrn“Henry,” said the other, munching with deliberation the beans he wasrneating, “did you happen to notice the way them dogs kicked up when Irnwas a-feedin’ ’em?”rnrn“They did cut up more’n usual,” Henry acknowledged.rnrn“How many dogs ’ve we got, Henry?”rnrn“Six.”rnrn“Well, Henry . . . ” Bill stopped for a moment, in order that his wordsrnmight gain greater significance. “As I was sayin’, Henry, we’ve got sixrndogs. I took six fish out of the bag. I gave one fish to each dog, an’,rnHenry, I was one fish short.”rnrn“You counted wrong.”rnrn“We’ve got six dogs,” the other reiterated dispassionately. “I took outrnsix fish. One Ear didn’t get no fish. I came back to the bag afterwardrnan’ got ’m his fish.”rnrn“We’ve only got six dogs,” Henry said.rnrn“Henry,” Bill went on. “I won’t say they was all dogs, but there wasrnseven of ’m that got fish.”rnrnHenry stopped eating to glance across the fire and count the dogs.rnrn“There’s only six now,” he said.rnrn“I saw the other one run off across the snow,” Bill announced with coolrnpositiveness. “I saw seven.”rnrnHenry looked at him commiseratingly, and said, “I’ll be almighty gladrnwhen this trip’s over.”rnrn“What d’ye mean by that?” Bill demanded.rnrn“I mean that this load of ourn is gettin’ on your nerves, an’ thatrnyou’re beginnin’ to see things.”rnrn“I thought of that,” Bill answered gravely. “An’ so, when I saw it runrnoff across the snow, I looked in the snow an’ saw its tracks. Then Irncounted the dogs an’ there was still six of ’em. The tracks is there inrnthe snow now. D’ye want to look at ’em? I’ll show ’em to you.”rnrnHenry did not reply, but munched on in silence, until, the mealrnfinished, he topped it with a final cup of coffee. He wiped his mouthrnwith the back of his hand and said:rnrn“Then you’re thinkin’ as it was—”rnrnA long wailing cry, fiercely sad, from somewhere in the darkness, hadrninterrupted him. He stopped to listen to it, then he finished hisrnsentence with a wave of his hand toward the sound of the cry, “—one ofrnthem?”rnrnBill nodded. “I’d a blame sight sooner think that than anything else.rnYou noticed yourself the row the dogs made.”rnrnCry after cry, and answering cries, were turning the silence into arnbedlam. From every side the cries arose, and the dogs betrayed theirrnfear by huddling together and so close to the fire that their hair wasrnscorched by the heat. Bill threw on more wood, before lighting hisrnpipe.rnrn“I’m thinking you’re down in the mouth some,” Henry said.rnrn“Henry . . . ” He sucked meditatively at his pipe for some time beforernhe went on. “Henry, I was a-thinkin’ what a blame sight luckier he isrnthan you an’ me’ll ever be.”rnrnHe indicated the third person by a downward thrust of the thumb to thernbox on which they sat.rnrn“You an’ me, Henry, when we die, we’ll be lucky if we get enough stonesrnover our carcases to keep the dogs off of us.”rnrn“But we ain’t got people an’ money an’ all the rest, like him,” Henryrnrejoined. “Long-distance funerals is somethin’ you an’ me can’t exactlyrnafford.”rnrn“What gets me, Henry, is what a chap like this, that’s a lord orrnsomething in his own country, and that’s never had to bother about grubrnnor blankets; why he comes a-buttin’ round the Godforsaken ends of thernearth—that’s what I can’t exactly see.”rnrn“He might have lived to a ripe old age if he’d stayed at home,” Henryrnagreed.rnrnBill opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind. Instead, hernpointed towards the wall of darkness that pressed about them from everyrnside. There was no suggestion of form in the utter blackness; onlyrncould be seen a pair of eyes gleaming like live coals. Henry indicatedrnwith his head a second pair, and a third. A circle of the gleaming eyesrnhad drawn about their camp. Now and again a pair of eyes moved, orrndisappeared to appear again a moment later.rnrnThe unrest of the dogs had been increasing, and they stampeded, in arnsurge of sudden fear, to the near side of the fire, cringing andrncrawling about the legs of the men. In the scramble one of the dogs hadrnbeen overturned on the edge of the fire, and it had yelped with painrnand fright as the smell of its singed coat possessed the air. Therncommotion caused the circle of eyes to shift restlessly for a momentrnand even to withdraw a bit, but it settled down again as the dogsrnbecame quiet.rnrn“Henry, it’s a blame misfortune to be out of ammunition.”rnrnBill had finished his pipe and was helping his companion to spread thernbed of fur and blanket upon the spruce boughs which he had laid overrnthe snow before supper. Henry grunted, and began unlacing hisrnmoccasins.rnrn“How many cartridges did you say you had left?” he asked.rnrn“Three,” came the answer. “An’ I wisht ’twas three hundred. Then I’drnshow ’em what for, damn ’em!”rnrnHe shook his fist angrily at the gleaming eyes, and began securely tornprop his moccasins before the fire.rnrn“An’ I wisht this cold snap’d break,” he went on. “It’s ben fifty belowrnfor two weeks now. An’ I wisht I’d never started on this trip, Henry. Irndon’t like the looks of it. I don’t feel right, somehow. An’ while I’mrnwishin’, I wisht the trip was over an’ done with, an’ you an’ merna-sittin’ by the fire in Fort McGurry just about now an’ playingrncribbage—that’s what I wisht.”rnrnHenry grunted and crawled into bed. As he dozed off he was aroused byrnhis comrade’s voice.rnrn“Say, Henry, that other one that come in an’ got a fish—why didn’t therndogs pitch into it? That’s what’s botherin’ me.”rnrn“You’re botherin’ too much, Bill,” came the sleepy response. “You wasrnnever like this before. You jes’ shut up now, an’ go to sleep, an’rnyou’ll be all hunkydory in the mornin’. Your stomach’s sour, that’srnwhat’s botherin’ you.”rnrnThe men slept, breathing heavily, side by side, under the one covering.rnThe fire died down, and the gleaming eyes drew closer the circle theyrnhad flung about the camp. The dogs clustered together in fear, now andrnagain snarling menacingly as a pair of eyes drew close. Once theirrnuproar became so loud that Bill woke up. He got out of bed carefully,rnso as not to disturb the sleep of his comrade, and threw more wood onrnthe fire. As it began to flame up, the circle of eyes drew fartherrnback. He glanced casually at the huddling dogs. He rubbed his eyes andrnlooked at them more sharply. Then he crawled back into the blankets.rnrn“Henry,” he said. “Oh, Henry.”rnrnHenry groaned as he passed from sleep to waking, and demanded, “What’srnwrong now?”rnrn“Nothin’,” came the answer; “only there’s seven of ’em again. I justrncounted.”rnrnHenry acknowledged receipt of the information with a grunt that slidrninto a snore as he drifted back into sleep.rnrnIn the morning it was Henry who awoke first and routed his companionrnout of bed. Daylight was yet three hours away, though it was alreadyrnsix o’clock; and in the darkness Henry went about preparing breakfast,rnwhile Bill rolled the blankets and made the sled ready for lashing.rnrn“Say, Henry,” he asked suddenly, “how many dogs did you say we had?”rnrn“Six.”rnrn“Wrong,” Bill proclaimed triumphantly.rnrn“Seven again?” Henry queried.rnrn“No, five; one’s gone.”rnrn“The hell!” Henry cried in wrath, leaving the cooking to come and countrnthe dogs.rnrn“You’re right, Bill,” he concluded. “Fatty’s gone.”rnrn“An’ he went like greased lightnin’ once he got started. Couldn’t ’vernseen ’m for smoke.”rnrn“No chance at all,” Henry concluded. “They jes’ swallowed ’m alive. Irnbet he was yelpin’ as he went down their throats, damn ’em!”rnrn“He always was a fool dog,” said Bill.rnrn“But no fool dog ought to be fool enough to go off an’ commit suicidernthat way.” He looked over the remainder of the team with a speculativerneye that summed up instantly the salient traits of each animal. “I betrnnone of the others would do it.”rnrn“Couldn’t drive ’em away from the fire with a club,” Bill agreed. “Irnalways did think there was somethin’ wrong with Fatty anyway.”rnrnAnd this was the epitaph of a dead dog on the Northland trail—lessrnscant than the epitaph of many another dog, of many a man.