He would cross this divide to the first trickle of anotherstream， flowing to the west， which he would follow untilit emptied into the river Dease， and here he would finda cache under an upturned canoe and piled over withmany rocks. And in this cache would be ammunition forhis empty gun， fish-hooks and lines， a small net—all theutilities for the killing and snaring of food. Also， he wouldfind flour， —not much， —a piece of bacon， and some beans.
Bill would be waiting for him there， and they wouldpaddle away south down the Dease to the Great BearLake. And south across the lake they would go， ever south，till they gained the Mackenzie. And south， still south， theywould go， while the winter raced vainly after them， andthe ice formed in the eddies， and the days grew chill andcrisp， south to some warm Hudson Bay Company post，where timber grew tall and generous and there was grubwithout end.
These were the thoughts of the man as he stroveonward. But hard as he strove with his body， he stroveequally hard with his mind， trying to think that Bill hadnot deserted him， that Bill would surely wait for him atthe cache. He was compelled to think this thought， or elsethere would not be any use to strive， and he would havelain down and died. And as the dim ball of the sun sankslowly into the northwest he covered every inch—andmany times—of his and Bill’s flight south before thedowncoming winter. And he conned the grub of the cacheand the grub of the Hudson Bay Company post overand over again. He had not eaten for two days； for a farlonger time he had not had all he wanted to eat. Often hestooped and picked pale muskeg berries， put them into hismouth， and chewed and swallowed them. A muskeg berryis a bit of seed enclosed in a bit of water. In the mouththe water melts away and the seed chews sharp and bitter.
The man knew there was no nourishment in the berries，but he chewed them patiently with a hope greater thanknowledge and defying experience.
At nine o’clock he stubbed his toe on a rocky ledge， andfrom sheer weariness and weakness staggered and fell. Helay for some time， without movement， on his side. Thenhe slipped out of the pack-straps and clumsily draggedhimself into a sitting posture. It was not yet dark， and inthe lingering twilight he groped about among the rocksfor shreds of dry moss. When he had gathered a heap hebuilt a fire， —a smouldering， smudgy fire， —and put a tinpot of water on to boil.
He unwrapped his pack and the first thing he did wasto count his matches. There were sixty-seven. He countedthem three times to make sure. He divided them intoseveral portions， wrapping them in oil paper， disposing ofone bunch in his empty tobacco pouch， of another bunchin the inside band of his battered hat， of a third bunchunder his shirt on the chest. This accomplished， a paniccame upon him， and he unwrapped them all and countedthem again. There were still sixty-seven.
He dried his wet foot-gear by the fire. The moccasinswere in soggy shreds. The blanket socks were wornthrough in places， and his feet were raw and bleeding. Hisankle was throbbing， and he gave it an examination. Ithad swollen to the size of his knee. He tore a long stripfrom one of his two blankets and bound the ankle tightly.
He tore other strips and bound them about his feet toserve for both moccasins and socks. Then he drank thepot of water， steaming hot， wound his watch， and crawledbetween his blankets.
He slept like a dead man. The brief darkness aroundmidnight came and went. The sun arose in the northeast—at least the day dawned in that quarter， for the sun washidden by gray clouds.
At six o’clock he awoke， quietly lying on his back. Hegazed straight up into the gray sky and knew that he washungry. As he rolled over on his elbow he was startled bya loud snort， and saw a bull caribou regarding him withalert curiosity. The animal was not more than fifty feetaway， and instantly into the man’s mind leaped the visionand the savor of a caribou steak sizzling and frying over afire. Mechanically he reached for the empty gun， drew abead， and pulled the trigger. The bull snorted and leapedaway， his hoofs rattling and clattering as he fled across theledges.
The man cursed and flung the empty gun from him. Hegroaned aloud as he started to drag himself to his feet.
It was a slow and arduous task. His joints were like rustyhinges. They worked harshly in their sockets， with muchfriction， and each bending or unbending was accomplishedonly through a sheer exertion of will. When he finallygained his feet， another minute or so was consumed instraightening up， so that he could stand erect as a manshould stand.
He crawled up a small knoll and surveyed the prospect.
There were no trees， no bushes， nothing but a gray sea ofmoss scarcely diversified by gray rocks， gray lakelets， andgray streamlets. The sky was gray. There was no sun norhint of sun. He had no idea of north， and he had forgottenthe way he had come to this spot the night before. But hewas not lost. He knew that. Soon he would come to theland of the little sticks. He felt that it lay off to the leftsomewhere， not far—possibly just over the next low hill.
He went back to put his pack into shape for travelling.
He assured himself of the existence of his three separateparcels of matches， though he did not stop to count them.
But he did linger， debating， over a squat moose-hide sack.
It was not large. He could hide it under his two hands. Heknew that it weighed fifteen pounds， —as much as all therest of the pack， —and it worried him. He finally set itto one side and proceeded to roll the pack. He paused togaze at the squat moose-hide sack. He picked it up hastilywith a defiant glance about him， as though the desolationwere trying to rob him of it； and when he rose to his feetto stagger on into the day， it was included in the pack onhis back.