By this time he had become hunger-mad. He felt through the snow and pulled up some grass roots. The chewed the roots but they were tasteless or bitter.
He had no fire that night because he couldn’t find any dry wood， so he crawled under his blanket to sleep the broken sleep of hunger. The snow turned into a cold rain. He felt it on his face during the night.
Late the next morning the sun broke through the gray mist. Then the man realized he was lost. He turned northward to correct his course， hoping to find the river and the canoe. Then he wondered what had happened to Bill.
Though his hunger pains were no worse， he realized he was getting weaker. He had to stop frequently to rest. His tongue felt dry and large， and his mouth had a bitter taste. His heart gave him a great deal of trouble. He could feel its thump， thump， thump； and the painful beats choked him and made him feel faint.
In the middle of the day he caught two small fish in a pool by using his pail. He ate the fish raw， but the hunger pain was now dull and lifeless. His stomach had gone to sleep.
In the evening he caught three more small fish， eating two of them and saving one for his breakfast. Another night passed. In the morning he tied more strips of the blanket around his feet， and the he untied the string of the moose-hide pouch. Form its open mouth poured a yellow stream of coarse gold dust and nuggets. He knew he must lighten his load. He hardly had the strength to carry the last remaining blanket. He roughly divided the gold into halves. He poured half of the gold into a piece of blanket and rolled it into a small package， which he hid in a rock ledge.
Then he walked on， barely able to place one foot ahead of the other.
He faced another day of cold fog. Half of his last blanket had gone to wrap his feet. He was now too weak to carry his small pack. Again he divided the gold， this time by spilling half of it on the ground. In the afternoon he threw the rest of it away. There remained only the half blanket， then tin pail， his knife， and the rifle.
He pushed on for an hour before he fell into a faint. Aroused by a noise， he could not believe his eyes. Before him stood a horse. A horse！ Rubbing his eyes， he suddenly realized he was looking at a great brown bear.
The man brought his gun half way to his shoulder before he remembered it was not loaded. He lowered it and drew his hunting knife， wondering if the dear would attack. The man drew himself up to his full height， stared at the bear and waited. The bear advanced a few steps and then stopped. The man knew if he ran， the bear would run after him. With all his might the man swung the knife and growled like an animal. The bear did not understand the mysterious creature and walked away.
The man pulled himself together and went on， afraid now in a new way. There were wolves. Now and again the wolves， in packs of two and three， crossed his path. They stayed clear of the man， for it was easier to hunt the caribou.
In the late afternoon he came upon the bones of a caribou calf. He sat on the moss and gathered the bones into a heap， and then he chewedthem with his bare teeth， trying to get a mouthful of the raw meat. Then he pounded the bones between rocks， beating them into a pulp and swallowed it. In his haste he almost broke some of his fingers， yet he did not mind the hurt.
Then came frightful days of snow and rain. The will to live carried him on. It was the life in him， unwilling to die， that drove him on. By this time he had become numb to pain. Half alive， he walked， he stumbled， he crawled until he came to a river. His dull senses told him it was not the same river where he and Bill had left their canoe. He followed the course of the river downstream. He didn’t know where he was—it didn’t matter much anyway. But he still had the will to live， and he pushed on.
He awoke one morning， lying on his back on a rocky ledge. In a painful effort， he rolled over on his side. Below him he could see that the river flowed out to the sea. He was not excited about that fact， and then he saw something that he was sure was a trick of the mind. Maybe， after all， it was a dream—a ship lying at anchor. He closed his eyes and then opened them. The ship was still there. The man could not believe it.
Then the man heard a noise behind him—a half-choking gasp or cough. He could see nothing near at hand. Again came the strange noises， and outlined against the rocks twenty feet away was the gray head of a wolf. The animal had bloodshot eyes. It seemed sick. It was no longer able to hunt with the packs. It even feared its own kind， but now it stalked the man， waiting for him to die.
The man looked again toward the sea. He decided the ship was real. It was at least five miles away， but the man had the will to live. He no longer felt the hunger. His last blanket was gone， and he had lost the rifle.
Though extremely weak， he was clam. He ripped off his pants legs to the knees and bound them to his feet. His movements were slow， but he was determined. He still had some matches and the tin pail. He warmed some water and drank it. Now he felt slightly better， and he was able to stand. He walked toward the ship until his weakness overcame him. Then he crawled on all fours like an animal.
In the late afternoon he saw an empty moose-hide sack like his. He recognized it and knew it was Bill’s. A hundred yards farther were the bones of a human skeleton. The man did not need to guess. Bill had almost made it！
Finally the man lay quiet in sleep. Two or three times during the night the sick wolf had come close to the man， bared its teeth， and sniffed in hunger， but the man flung his arms out and scared the wolf away.
The first rays of daylight brought the man to life. He was no longer able to stand， so he began to crawl toward the ship. He could see it now— lying beyond the breakers. His knees and arms were raw and bleeding， but the man kept moving， a foot at a time， until he reached the beach， where he lay quietly—unable to move a foot farther. He dreamed of food， clean clothing， and warm sunshine， and then he began to crawl again.