Throughout the night he heard the cough of the sick wolf, and now
and then the squawking of the caribou calves. There was life all
around him, but it was strong life, very much alive and well, and
he knew the sick wolf clung to the sick man's trail in the hope
that the man would die first. In the morning, on opening his eyes,
he beheld it regarding him with a wistful and hungry stare. It
stood crouched, with tail between its legs, like a miserable and
woe-begone dog. It shivered in the chill morning wind, and grinned
dispiritedly when the man spoke to it in a voice that achieved no
more than a hoarse whisper.
The sun rose brightly, and all morning the man tottered and fell
toward the ship on the shining sea. The weather was perfect. It
was the brief Indian Summer of the high latitudes. It might last a
week. To-morrow or next day it might he gone.
In the afternoon the man came upon a trail. It was of another man,
who did not walk, but who dragged himself on all fours. The man
thought it might be Bill, but he thought in a dull, uninterested
way.
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