Bill had carried it to the last. Ha！ ha！ He would have the laughon Bill. He would survive and carry it to the ship in the shiningsea. His mirth was hoarse and ghastly， like a raven’s croak，and the sick wolf joined him， howling lugubriously. The manceased suddenly. How could he have the laugh on Bill if thatwere Bill； if those bones， so pinky-white and clean， were Bill？
He turned away. Well， Bill had deserted him； but he wouldnot take the gold， nor would he suck Bill’s bones. Bill wouldhave， though， had it been the other way around， he mused ashe staggered on.
He came to a pool of water. Stooping over in quest ofminnows， he jerked his head back as though he had beenstung. He had caught sight of his reflected face. So horriblewas it that sensibility awoke long enough to be shocked.
There were three minnows in the pool， which was too largeto drain； and after several ineffectual attempts to catch themin the tin bucket he forbore. He was afraid， because of hisgreat weakness， that he might fall in and drown. It was for thisreason that he did not trust himself to the river astride one ofthe many drift-logs which lined its sand-spits.
That day he decreased the distance between him and theship by three miles； the next day by two—for he was crawlingnow as Bill had crawled； and the end of the fifth day foundthe ship still seven miles away and him unable to make even amile a day. Still the Indian Summer held on， and he continuedto crawl and faint， turn and turn about； and ever the sick wolfcoughed and wheezed at his heels. His knees had become rawmeat like his feet， and though he padded them with the shirtfrom his back it was a red track he left behind him on themoss and stones. Once， glancing back， he saw the wolf lickinghungrily his bleeding trail， and he saw sharply what his ownend might be—unless—unless he could get the wolf. Thenbegan as grim a tragedy of existence as was ever played—asick man that crawled， a sick wolf that limped， two creaturesdragging their dying carcasses across the desolation andhunting each other’s lives.
Had it been a well wolf， it would not have mattered so muchto the man； but the thought of going to feed the maw of thatloathsome and all but dead thing was repugnant to him. Hewas finicky. His mind had begun to wander again， and to beperplexed by hallucinations， while his lucid intervals grewrarer and shorter.
He was awakened once from a faint by a wheeze close in hisear. The wolf leaped lamely back， losing its footing and fallingin its weakness. It was ludicrous， but he was not amused.
Nor was he even afraid. He was too far gone for that. But hismind was for the moment clear， and he lay and considered.
The ship was no more than four miles away. He could see itquite distinctly when he rubbed the mists out of his eyes， andhe could see the white sail of a small boat cutting the water ofthe shining sea. But he could never crawl those four miles. Heknew that， and was very calm in the knowledge. He knew thathe could not crawl half a mile. And yet he wanted to live. Itwas unreasonable that he should die after all he had undergone.
Fate asked too much of him. And， dying， he declined to die. Itwas stark madness， perhaps， but in the very grip of Death hedefied Death and refused to die.
He closed his eyes and composed himself with infiniteprecaution. He steeled himself to keep above the suffocatinglanguor that lapped like a rising tide through all the wells ofhis being. It was very like a sea， this deadly languor， that roseand rose and drowned his consciousness bit by bit. Sometimeshe was all but submerged， swimming through oblivion witha faltering stroke； and again， by some strange alchemy ofsoul， he would find another shred of will and strike out morestrongly.