They limped painfully down the bank， and once theforemost of the two men staggered among the roughstrewnrocks. They were tired and weak， and their faceshad the drawn expression of patience which comes ofhardship long endured. They were heavily burdened withblanket packs which were strapped to their shoulders.
Head-straps， passing across the forehead， helped supportthese packs. Each man carried a rifle. They walked in astooped posture， the shoulders well forward， the head stillfarther forward， the eyes bent upon the ground.
“I wish we had just about two of them cartridges that’slayin’ in that cache of ourn，” said the second man.
His voice was utterly and drearily expressionless. Hespoke without enthusiasm； and the first man， limping intothe milky stream that foamed over the rocks， vouchsafedno reply.
The other man followed at his heels. They did notremove their foot-gear， though the water was icy cold—socold that their ankles ached and their feet went numb. Inplaces the water dashed against their knees， and both menstaggered for footing.
The man who followed slipped on a smooth boulder，nearly fell， but recovered himself with a violent effort， atthe same time uttering a sharp exclamation of pain. Heseemed faint and dizzy and put out his free hand while hereeled， as though seeking support against the air. When hehad steadied himself he stepped forward， but reeled againand nearly fell. Then he stood still and looked at the otherman， who had never turned his head.
The man stood still for fully a minute， as though debatingwith himself. Then he called out：
“I say， Bill， I’ve sprained my ankle.”
Bill staggered on through the milky water. He did notlook around. The man watched him go， and though hisface was expressionless as ever， his eyes were like the eyesof a wounded deer.
The other man limped up the farther bank and
continued straight on without looking back. The man inthe stream watched him. His lips trembled a little， so thatthe rough thatch of brown hair which covered them wasvisibly agitated. His tongue even strayed out to moistenthem.
“Bill！” he cried out. It was the pleading cry of a strongman in distress， but Bill’s head did not turn. The manwatched him go， limping grotesquely and lurching forwardwith stammering gait up the slow slope toward the softsky-line of the low-lying hill. He watched him go till hepassed over the crest and disappeared. Then he turnedhis gaze and slowly took in the circle of the world thatremained to him now that Bill was gone.
Near the horizon the sun was smouldering dimly，almost obscured by formless mists and vapors， which gavean impression of mass and density without outline ortangibility. The man pulled out his watch， the while restinghis weight on one leg. It was four o’clock， and as theseason was near the last of July or first of August， —he didnot know the precise date within a week or two， —he knewthat the sun roughly marked the northwest. He looked tothe south and knew that somewhere beyond those bleakhills lay the Great Bear Lake； also， he knew that in thatdirection the Arctic Circle cut its forbidding way acrossthe Canadian Barrens. This stream in which he stood wasa feeder to the Coppermine River， which in turn flowednorth and emptied into Coronation Gulf and the ArcticOcean. He had never been there， but he had seen it， once，on a Hudson Bay Company chart.
Again his gaze completed the circle of the world abouthim. It was not a heartening spectacle. Everywhere wassoft sky-line. The hills were all low-lying. There were notrees， no shrubs， no grasses—naught but a tremendousand terrible desolation that sent fear swiftly dawning intohis eyes.
“Bill！” he whispered， once and twice； “Bill！”
He cowered in the midst of the milky water， as thoughthe vastness were pressing in upon him with overwhelmingforce， brutally crushing him with its complacent awfulness.
He began to shake as with an ague-fit， till the gun fellfrom his hand with a splash. This served to rouse him. Hefought with his fear and pulled himself together， gropingin the water and recovering the weapon. He hitched hispack farther over on his left shoulder， so as to take aportion of its weight from off the injured ankle. Then heproceeded， slowly and carefully， wincing with pain， to thebank.
He did not stop. With a desperation that was madness，unmindful of the pain， he hurried up the slope to the crestof the hill over which his comrade had disappeared—moregrotesque and comical by far than that limping， jerkingcomrade. But at the crest he saw a shallow valley， emptyof life. He fought with his fear again， overcame it， hitchedthe pack still farther over on his left shoulder， and lurchedon down the slope.
The bottom of the valley was soggy with water， whichthe thick moss held， spongelike， close to the surface.
This water squirted out from under his feet at every step，and each time he lifted a foot the action culminated in asucking sound as the wet moss reluctantly released its grip.
He picked his way from muskeg to muskeg， and followedthe other man’s footsteps along and across the rockyledges which thrust like islets through the sea of moss.
Though alone， he was not lost. Farther on he knew hewould come to where dead spruce and fir， very small andweazened， bordered the shore of a little lake， the titchinnichilie，in the tongue of the country， the “land of littlesticks.” And into that lake flowed a small stream， the waterof which was not milky. There was rush-grass on thatstream—this he remembered well—but no timber， andhe would follow it till its first trickle ceased at a divide.