He followed the trail of the other man who draggedhimself along， and soon came to the end of it—a fewfresh-picked bones where the soggy moss was markedby the foot-pads of many wolves. He saw a squat moosehidesack， mate to his own， which had been torn by sharpteeth. He picked it up， though its weight was almost toomuch for his feeble fingers. Bill had carried it to the last.
Ha！ ha！ He would have the laugh on Bill. He would surviveand carry it to the ship in the shining sea. His mirth washoarse and ghastly， like a raven’s croak， and the sick wolfjoined him， howling lugubriously. The man ceased suddenly.
How could he have the laugh on Bill if that were Bill； ifthose bones， so inky-white and clean， were Bill？
He turned away. Well， Bill had deserted him； but hewould not take the gold， nor would he suck Bill’s bones.
Bill would have， though， had it been the other way around，he mused as he staggered on. He came to a pool of water.
Stooping over in quest of minnows， he jerked his headback as though he had been stung. He had caught sight ofhis reflected face. So horrible was it that sensibility awokelong enough to be shocked. There were three minnows inthe pool， which was too large to drain； and after severalineffectual attempts to catch them in the tin bucket heforbore. He was afraid， because of his great weakness， thathe might fall in and drown. It was for this reason that hedid not trust himself to the river astride one of the manydrift-logs which lined its sand-spits.
That day he decreased the distance between him andthe ship by three miles； the next day by two—for he wascrawling now as Bill had crawled； and the end of the fifthday found the ship still seven miles away and him unableto make even a mile a day. Still the Indian Summer heldon， and he continued to crawl and faint， turn and turnabout； and ever the sick wolf coughed and wheezed at hisheels. His knees had become raw meat like his feet， andthough he padded them with the shirt from his back itwas a red track he left behind him on the moss and stones.
Once， glancing back， he saw the wolf licking hungrily hisbleeding trail， and he saw sharply what his own end mightbe—unless—unless he could get the wolf. Then beganas grim a tragedy of existence as was ever played—a sickman 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 matteredso much to the man； but the thought of going to feedthe maw of that loathsome and all but dead thing wasrepugnant to him. He was finicky. His mind had begun towander again， and to be perplexed by hallucinations， whilehis lucid intervals grew rarer and shorter.
He was awakened once from a faint by a wheeze closein his ear. The wolf leaped lamely back， losing its footingand falling in its weakness. It was ludicrous， but he wasnot amused. Nor was he even afraid. He was too far gonefor that. But his mind was for the moment clear， and helay and considered. The ship was no more than four milesaway. He could see it quite distinctly when he rubbedthe mists out of his eyes， and he could see the white sailof a small boat cutting the water of the shining sea. Buthe could never crawl those four miles. He knew that，and was very calm in the knowledge. He knew that hecould not crawl half a mile. And yet he wanted to live.
It was unreasonable that he should die after all he hadundergone. Fate asked too much of him. And， dying， hedeclined to die. It was stark madness， perhaps， but in thevery grip of Death he defied 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 wellsof his being. It was very like a sea， this deadly languor， thatrose and rose and drowned his consciousness bit by bit.
Sometimes he was all but submerged， swimming throughoblivion with a faltering stroke； and again， by some strangealchemy of soul， he would find another shred of will andstrike out more strongly.