A wolfish head, wistful-eyed and frost-rimed, thrust aside the
tent-flaps.
"Hi! Chook! Siwash! Chook, you limb of Satan!" chorused the protesting
inmates. Bettles rapped the dog sharply with a tin plate, and it
withdrew hastily. Louis Savoy refastened the flaps, kicked a frying-pan
over against the bottom, and warmed his hands. It was very cold without.
Forty-eight hours gone, the spirit thermometer had burst at sixty-eight
below, and since that time it had grown steadily and bitterly colder.
There was no telling when the snap would end. And it is poor policy,
unless the gods will it, to venture far from a stove at such times, or to
increase the quantity of cold atmosphere one must breathe. Men sometimes
do it, and sometimes they chill their lungs. This leads up to a dry,
hacking cough, noticeably irritable when bacon is being fried. After
that, somewhere along in the spring or summer, a hole is burned in the
frozen muck. Into this a man's carcass is dumped, covered over with
moss, and left with the assurance that it will rise on the crack of Doom,
wholly and frigidly intact. For those of little faith, sceptical of
material integration on that fateful day, no fitter country than the
Klondike can be recommended to die in. But it is not to be inferred from
this that it is a fit country for living purposes.
It was very cold without, but it was not over-warm within. The only
article which might be designated furniture was the stove, and for this
the men were frank in displaying their preference. Upon half of the
floor pine boughs had been cast; above this were spread the
sleeping-furs, beneath lay the winter's snowfall. The remainder of the
floor was moccasin-packed snow, littered with pots and pans and the
general _impedimenta_ of an Arctic camp. The stove was red and roaring
hot, but only a bare three feet away lay a block of ice, as sharp-edged
and dry as when first quarried from the creek bottom. The pressure of
the outside cold forced the inner heat upward. Just above the stove,
where the pipe penetrated the roof, was a tiny circle of dry canvas;
next, with the pipe always as centre, a circle of steaming canvas; next a
damp and moisture-exuding ring; and finally, the rest of the tent,
sidewalls and top, coated with a half-inch of dry, white,
crystal-encrusted frost.
"_Oh_! OH! OH!" A young fellow, lying asleep in the furs, bearded and
wan and weary, raised a moan of pain, and without waking increased the
pitch and intensity of his anguish. His body half-lifted from the
blankets, and quivered and shrank spasmodically, as though drawing away
from a bed of nettles.
"Roll'm over!" ordered Bettles. "He's crampin'."
And thereat, with pitiless good-will, he was pitched upon and rolled and
thumped and pounded by half-a-dozen willing comrades.
"Damn the trail," he muttered softly, as he threw off the robes and sat
up. "I've run across country, played quarter three seasons hand-running,
and hardened myself in all manner of ways; and then I pilgrim it into
this God-forsaken land and find myself an effeminate Athenian without the
simplest rudiments of manhood!" He hunched up to the fire and rolled a
cigarette. "Oh, I'm not whining. I can take my medicine all right, all
right; but I'm just decently ashamed of myself, that's all. Here I am,
on top of a dirty thirty miles, as knocked up and stiff and sore as a
pink-tea degenerate after a five-mile walk on a country turn-pike. Bah!
It makes me sick! Got a match?" "Don't git the tantrums, youngster."
Bettles passed over the required fire-stick and waxed patriarchal. "Ye've
gotter 'low some for the breakin'-in. Sufferin' cracky! don't I
recollect the first time I hit the trail! Stiff? I've seen the time
it'd take me ten minutes to git my mouth from the water-hole an' come to
my feet--every jint crackin' an' kickin' fit to kill. Cramp? In sech
knots it'd take the camp half a day to untangle me. You're all right,
for a cub, any ye've the true sperrit. Come this day year, you'll walk
all us old bucks into the ground any time. An' best in your favor, you
hain't got that streak of fat in your make-up which has sent many a husky
man to the bosom of Abraham afore his right and proper time."
"Streak of fat?"
"Yep. Comes along of bulk. 'T ain't the big men as is the best when it
comes to the trail."
"Never heard of it."
"Never heered of it, eh? Well, it's a dead straight, open-an'-shut fact,
an' no gittin' round. Bulk's all well enough for a mighty big effort,
but 'thout stayin' powers it ain't worth a continental whoop; an' stayin'
powers an' bulk ain't runnin' mates. Takes the small, wiry fellows when
it comes to gittin' right down an' hangin' on like a lean-jowled dog to a
bone. Why, hell's fire, the big men they ain't in it!"
"By gar!" broke in Louis Savoy, "dat is no, vot you call, josh! I know
one mans, so vaire beeg like ze buffalo. Wit him, on ze Sulphur Creek
stampede, go one small mans, Lon McFane. You know dat Lon McFane, dat
leetle Irisher wit ze red hair and ze grin. An' dey walk an' walk an'
walk, all ze day long an' ze night long. And beeg mans, him become vaire
tired, an' lay down mooch in ze snow. And leetle mans keek beeg mans,
an' him cry like, vot you call--ah! vot you call ze kid. And leetle mans
keek an' keek an' keek, an' bime by, long time, long way, keek beeg mans
into my cabin. Tree days 'fore him crawl out my blankets. Nevaire I see
beeg squaw like him. No nevaire. Him haf vot you call ze streak of fat.
You bet."
"But there was Axel Gunderson," Prince spoke up. The great Scandinavian,
with the tragic events which shadowed his passing, had made a deep mark
on the mining engineer. "He lies up there, somewhere." He swept his
hand in the vague direction of the mysterious east.
"Biggest man that ever turned his heels to Salt Water, or run a moose
down with sheer grit," supplemented Bettles; "but he's the prove-the-rule
exception. Look at his woman, Unga,--tip the scales at a hundred an'
ten, clean meat an' nary ounce to spare. She'd bank grit 'gainst his for
all there was in him, an' see him, an' go him better if it was possible.
Nothing over the earth, or in it, or under it, she wouldn't 'a' done."
"But she loved him," objected the engineer.
"'T ain't that. It--"
"Look you, brothers," broke in Sitka Charley from his seat on the grub-
box. "Ye have spoken of the streak of fat that runs in big men's
muscles, of the grit of women and the love, and ye have spoken fair; but
I have in mind things which happened when the land was young and the
fires of men apart as the stars. It was then I had concern with a big
man, and a streak of fat, and a woman. And the woman was small; but her
heart was greater than the beef-heart of the man, and she had grit. And
we traveled a weary trail, even to the Salt Water, and the cold was
bitter, the snow deep, the hunger great. And the woman's love was a
mighty love--no more can man say than this."
He paused, and with the hatchet broke pieces of ice from the large chunk
beside him. These he threw into the gold pan on the stove, where the
drinking-water thawed. The men drew up closer, and he of the cramps
sought greater comfort vainly for his stiffened body.
"Brothers, my blood is red with Siwash, but my heart is white. To the
faults of my fathers I owe the one, to the virtues of my friends the
other. A great truth came to me when I was yet a boy. I learned that to
your kind and you was given the earth; that the Siwash could not
withstand you, and like the caribou and the bear, must perish in the
cold. So I came into the warm and sat among you, by your fires, and
behold, I became one of you, I have seen much in my time. I have known
strange things, and bucked big, on big trails, with men of many breeds.
And because of these things, I measure deeds after your manner, and judge
men, and think thoughts. Wherefore, when I speak harshly of one of your
own kind, I know you will not take it amiss; and when I speak high of one
of my father's people, you will not take it upon you to say, 'Sitka
Charley is Siwash, and there is a crooked light in his eyes and small
honor to his tongue.' Is it not so?"
Deep down in throat, the circle vouchsafed its assent.
"The woman was Passuk. I got her in fair trade from her people, who were
of the Coast and whose Chilcat totem stood at the head of a salt arm of
the sea. My heart did not go out to the woman, nor did I take stock of
her looks. For she scarce took her eyes from the ground, and she was
timid and afraid, as girls will be when cast into a stranger's arms whom
they have never seen before. As I say, there was no place in my heart
for her to creep, for I had a great journey in mind, and stood in need of
one to feed my dogs and to lift a paddle with me through the long river
days. One blanket would cover the twain; so I chose Passuk.
"Have I not said I was a servant to the Government? If not, it is well
that ye know. So I was taken on a warship, sleds and dogs and evaporated
foods, and with me came Passuk. And we went north, to the winter ice-rim
of Bering Sea, where we were landed,--myself, and Passuk, and the dogs. I
was also given moneys of the Government, for I was its servant, and
charts of lands which the eyes of man had never dwelt upon, and messages.
These messages were sealed, and protected shrewdly from the weather, and
I was to deliver them to the whale-ships of the Arctic, ice-bound by the
great Mackenzie. Never was there so great a river, forgetting only our
own Yukon, the Mother of all Rivers.
"All of which is neither here nor there, for my story deals not with the
whale-ships, nor the berg-bound winter I spent by the Mackenzie.
Afterward, in the spring, when the days lengthened and there was a crust
to the snow, we came south, Passuk and I, to the Country of the Yukon. A
weary journey, but the sun pointed out the way of our feet. It was a
naked land then, as I have said, and we worked up the current, with pole
and paddle, till we came to Forty Mile. Good it was to see white faces
once again, so we put into the bank. And that winter was a hard winter.
The darkness and the cold drew down upon us, and with them the famine. To
each man the agent of the Company gave forty pounds of flour and twenty
of bacon. There were no beans. And, the dogs howled always, and there
were flat bellies and deep-lined faces, and strong men became weak, and
weak men died. There was also much scurvy.
"Then came we together in the store one night, and the empty shelves made
us feel our own emptiness the more. We talked low, by the light of the
fire, for the candles had been set aside for those who might yet gasp in
the spring. Discussion was held, and it was said that a man must go
forth to the Salt Water and tell to the world our misery. At this all
eyes turned to me, for it was understood that I was a great traveler. 'It
is seven hundred miles,' said I, 'to Haines Mission by the sea, and every
inch of it snowshoe work. Give me the pick of your dogs and the best of
your grub, and I will go. And with me shall go Passuk.'
"To this they were agreed. But there arose one, Long Jeff, a Yankee-man,
big-boned and big-muscled. Also his talk was big. He, too, was a mighty
traveler, he said, born to the snowshoe and bred up on buffalo milk. He
would go with me, in case I fell by the trail, that he might carry the
word on to the Mission. I was young, and I knew not Yankee-men. How was
I to know that big talk betokened the streak of fat, or that Yankee-men
who did great things kept their teeth together? So we took the pick of
the dogs and the best of the grub, and struck the trail, we
three,--Passuk, Long Jeff, and I.
"Well, ye have broken virgin snow, labored at the gee-pole, and are not
unused to the packed river-jams; so I will talk little of the toil, save
that on some days we made ten miles, and on others thirty, but more often
ten. And the best of the grub was not good, while we went on stint from
the start. Likewise the pick of the dogs was poor, and we were hard put
to keep them on their legs. At the White River our three sleds became
two sleds, and we had only come two hundred miles. But we lost nothing;
the dogs that left the traces went into the bellies of those that
remained.
"Not a greeting, not a curl of smoke, till we made Pelly. Here I had
counted on grub; and here I had counted on leaving Long Jeff, who was
whining and trail-sore. But the factor's lungs were wheezing, his eyes
bright, his cache nigh empty; and he showed us the empty cache of the
missionary, also his grave with the rocks piled high to keep off the
dogs. There was a bunch of Indians there, but babies and old men there
were none, and it was clear that few would see the spring.
"So we pulled on, light-stomached and heavy-hearted, with half a thousand
miles of snow and silence between us and Haines Mission by the sea. The
darkness was at its worst, and at midday the sun could not clear the sky-
line to the south. But the ice-jams were smaller, the going better; so I
pushed the dogs hard and traveled late and early. As I said at Forty
Mile, every inch of it was snow-shoe work. And the shoes made great
sores on our feet, which cracked and scabbed but would not heal. And
every day these sores grew more grievous, till in the morning, when we
girded on the shoes, Long Jeff cried like a child. I put him at the fore
of the light sled to break trail, but he slipped off the shoes for
comfort. Because of this the trail was not packed, his moccasins made
great holes, and into these holes the dogs wallowed. The bones of the
dogs were ready to break through their hides, and this was not good for
them. So I spoke hard words to the man, and he promised, and broke his
word. Then I beat him with the dog-whip, and after that the dogs
wallowed no more. He was a child, what of the pain and the streak of
fat.
"But Passuk. While the man lay by the fire and wept, she cooked, and in
the morning helped lash the sleds, and in the evening to unlash them. And
she saved the dogs. Ever was she to the fore, lifting the webbed shoes
and making the way easy. Passuk--how shall I say?--I took it for granted
that she should do these things, and thought no more about it. For my
mind was busy with other matters, and besides, I was young in years and
knew little of woman. It was only on looking back that I came to
understand.
"And the man became worthless. The dogs had little strength in them, but
he stole rides on the sled when he lagged behind. Passuk said she would
take the one sled, so the man had nothing to do. In the morning I gave
him his fair share of grub and started him on the trail alone. Then the
woman and I broke camp, packed the sleds, and harnessed the dogs. By
midday, when the sun mocked us, we would overtake the man, with the tears
frozen on his cheeks, and pass him. In the night we made camp, set aside
his fair share of grub, and spread his furs. Also we made a big fire,
that he might see. And hours afterward he would come limping in, and eat
his grub with moans and groans, and sleep. He was not sick, this man. He
was only trail-sore and tired, and weak with hunger. But Passuk and I
were trail-sore and tired, and weak with hunger; and we did all the work
and he did none. But he had the streak of fat of which our brother
Bettles has spoken. Further, we gave the man always his fair share of
grub.
"Then one day we met two ghosts journeying through the Silence. They
were a man and a boy, and they were white. The ice had opened on Lake Le
Barge, and through it had gone their main outfit. One blanket each
carried about his shoulders. At night they built a fire and crouched
over it till morning. They had a little flour. This they stirred in
warm water and drank. The man showed me eight cups of flour--all they
had, and Pelly, stricken with famine, two hundred miles away. They said,
also, that there was an Indian behind; that they had whacked fair, but
that he could not keep up. I did not believe they had whacked fair, else
would the Indian have kept up. But I could give them no grub. They
strove to steal a dog--the fattest, which was very thin--but I shoved my
pistol in their faces and told them begone. And they went away, like
drunken men, through the Silence toward Pelly.
"I had three dogs now, and one sled, and the dogs were only bones and
hair. When there is little wood, the fire burns low and the cabin grows
cold. So with us. With little grub the frost bites sharp, and our faces
were black and frozen till our own mothers would not have known us. And
our feet were very sore. In the morning, when I hit the trail, I sweated
to keep down the cry when the pain of the snowshoes smote me. Passuk
never opened her lips, but stepped to the fore to break the way. The man
howled.
"The Thirty Mile was swift, and the current ate away the ice from
beneath, and there were many air-holes and cracks, and much open water.
One day we came upon the man, resting, for he had gone ahead, as was his
wont, in the morning. But between us was open water. This he had passed
around by taking to the rim-ice where it was too narrow for a sled. So
we found an ice-bridge. Passuk weighed little, and went first, with a
long pole crosswise in her hands in chance she broke through. But she
was light, and her shoes large, and she passed over. Then she called the
dogs. But they had neither poles nor shoes, and they broke through and
were swept under by the water. I held tight to the sled from behind,
till the traces broke and the dogs went on down under the ice. There was
little meat to them, but I had counted on them for a week's grub, and
they were gone.
"The next morning I divided all the grub, which was little, into three
portions. And I told Long Jeff that he could keep up with us, or not, as
he saw fit; for we were going to travel light and fast. But he raised
his voice and cried over his sore feet and his troubles, and said harsh
things against comradeship. Passuk's feet were sore, and my feet were
sore--ay, sorer than his, for we had worked with the dogs; also, we
looked to see. Long Jeff swore he would die before he hit the trail
again; so Passuk took a fur robe, and I a cooking pot and an axe, and we
made ready to go. But she looked on the man's portion, and said, 'It is
wrong to waste good food on a baby. He is better dead.' I shook my head
and said no--that a comrade once was a comrade always. Then she spoke of
the men of Forty Mile; that they were many men and good; and that they
looked to me for grub in the spring. But when I still said no, she
snatched the pistol from my belt, quick, and as our brother Bettles has
spoken, Long Jeff went to the bosom of Abraham before his time. I chided
Passuk for this; but she showed no sorrow, nor was she sorrowful. And in
my heart I knew she was right."
Sitka Charley paused and threw pieces of ice into the gold pan on the
stove. The men were silent, and their backs chilled to the sobbing cries
of the dogs as they gave tongue to their misery in the outer cold.
"And day by day we passed in the snow the sleeping-places of the two
ghosts--Passuk and I--and we knew we would be glad for such ere we made
Salt Water. Then we came to the Indian, like another ghost, with his
face set toward Pelly. They had not whacked up fair, the man and the
boy, he said, and he had had no flour for three days. Each night he
boiled pieces of his moccasins in a cup, and ate them. He did not have
much moccasins left. And he was a Coast Indian, and told us these things
through Passuk, who talked his tongue. He was a stranger in the Yukon,
and he knew not the way, but his face was set to Pelly. How far was it?
Two sleeps? ten? a hundred--he did not know, but he was going to Pelly.
It was too far to turn back; he could only keep on.
"He did not ask for grub, for he could see we, too, were hard put. Passuk
looked at the man, and at me, as though she were of two minds, like a
mother partridge whose young are in trouble. So I turned to her and
said, 'This man has been dealt unfair. Shall I give him of our grub a
portion?' I saw her eyes light, as with quick pleasure; but she looked
long at the man and at me, and her mouth drew close and hard, and she
said, 'No. The Salt Water is afar off, and Death lies in wait. Better
it is that he take this stranger man and let my man Charley pass.' So
the man went away in the Silence toward Pelly. That night she wept.
Never had I seen her weep before. Nor was it the smoke of the fire, for
the wood was dry wood. So I marveled at her sorrow, and thought her
woman's heart had grown soft at the darkness of the trail and the pain.
"Life is a strange thing. Much have I thought on it, and pondered long,
yet daily the strangeness of it grows not less, but more. Why this
longing for Life? It is a game which no man wins. To live is to toil
hard, and to suffer sore, till Old Age creeps heavily upon us and we
throw down our hands on the cold ashes of dead fires. It is hard to
live. In pain the babe sucks his first breath, in pain the old man gasps
his last, and all his days are full of trouble and sorrow; yet he goes
down to the open arms of Death, stumbling, falling, with head turned
backward, fighting to the last. And Death is kind. It is only Life, and
the things of Life that hurt. Yet we love Life, and we hate Death. It
is very strange.
"We spoke little, Passuk and I, in the days which came. In the night we
lay in the snow like dead people, and in the morning we went on our way,
walking like dead people. And all things were dead. There were no
ptarmigan, no squirrels, no snowshoe rabbits,--nothing. The river made
no sound beneath its white robes. The sap was frozen in the forest. And
it became cold, as now; and in the night the stars drew near and large,
and leaped and danced; and in the day the sun-dogs mocked us till we saw
many suns, and all the air flashed and sparkled, and the snow was diamond
dust. And there was no heat, no sound, only the bitter cold and the
Silence. As I say, we walked like dead people, as in a dream, and we
kept no count of time. Only our faces were set to Salt Water, our souls
strained for Salt Water, and our feet carried us toward Salt Water. We
camped by the Tahkeena, and knew it not. Our eyes looked upon the White
Horse, but we saw it not. Our feet trod the portage of the Canyon, but
they felt it not. We felt nothing. And we fell often by the way, but we
fell, always, with our faces toward Salt Water.
"Our last grub went, and we had shared fair, Passuk and I, but she fell
more often, and at Caribou Crossing her strength left her. And in the
morning we lay beneath the one robe and did not take the trail. It was
in my mind to stay there and meet Death hand-in-hand with Passuk; for I
had grown old, and had learned the love of woman. Also, it was eighty
miles to Haines Mission, and the great Chilcoot, far above the timber-
line, reared his storm-swept head between. But Passuk spoke to me, low,
with my ear against her lips that I might hear. And now, because she
need not fear my anger, she spoke her heart, and told me of her love, and
of many things which I did not understand.
"And she said: 'You are my man, Charley, and I have been a good woman to
you. And in all the days I have made your fire, and cooked your food,
and fed your dogs, and lifted paddle or broken trail, I have not
complained. Nor did I say that there was more warmth in the lodge of my
father, or that there was more grub on the Chilcat. When you have
spoken, I have listened. When you have ordered, I have obeyed. Is it
not so, Charley?'
"And I said: 'Ay, it is so.'
"And she said: 'When first you came to the Chilcat, nor looked upon me,
but bought me as a man buys a dog, and took me away, my heart was hard
against you and filled with bitterness and fear. But that was long ago.
For you were kind to me, Charley, as a good man is kind to his dog. Your
heart was cold, and there was no room for me; yet you dealt me fair and
your ways were just. And I was with you when you did bold deeds and led
great ventures, and I measured you against the men of other breeds, and I
saw you stood among them full of honor, and your word was wise, your
tongue true. And I grew proud of you, till it came that you filled all
my heart, and all my thought was of you. You were as the midsummer sun,
when its golden trail runs in a circle and never leaves the sky. And
whatever way I cast my eyes I beheld the sun. But your heart was ever
cold, Charley, and there was no room.'
"And I said: 'It is so. It was cold, and there was no room. But that is
past. Now my heart is like the snowfall in the spring, when the sun has
come back. There is a great thaw and a bending, a sound of running
waters, and a budding and sprouting of green things. And there is
drumming of partridges, and songs of robins, and great music, for the
winter is broken, Passuk, and I have learned the love of woman.'
"She smiled and moved for me to draw her closer. And she said, 'I am
glad.' After that she lay quiet for a long time, breathing softly, her
head upon my breast. Then she whispered: 'The trail ends here, and I am
tired. But first I would speak of other things. In the long ago, when I
was a girl on the Chilcat, I played alone among the skin bales of my
father's lodge; for the men were away on the hunt, and the women and boys
were dragging in the meat. It was in the spring, and I was alone. A
great brown bear, just awake from his winter's sleep, hungry, his fur
hanging to the bones in flaps of leanness, shoved his head within the
lodge and said, "Oof!" My brother came running back with the first sled
of meat. And he fought the bear with burning sticks from the fire, and
the dogs in their harnesses, with the sled behind them, fell upon the
bear. There was a great battle and much noise. They rolled in the fire,
the skin bales were scattered, the lodge overthrown. But in the end the
bear lay dead, with the fingers of my brother in his mouth and the marks
of his claws upon my brother's face. Did you mark the Indian by the
Pelly trail, his mitten which had no thumb, his hand which he warmed by
our fire? He was my brother. And I said he should have no grub. And he
went away in the Silence without grub.'
"This, my brothers, was the love of Passuk, who died in the snow, by the
Caribou Crossing. It was a mighty love, for she denied her brother for
the man who led her away on weary trails to a bitter end. And, further,
such was this woman's love, she denied herself. Ere her eyes closed for
the last time she took my hand and slipped it under her squirrel-skin
_parka_ to her waist. I felt there a well-filled pouch, and learned the
secret of her lost strength. Day by day we had shared fair, to the last
least bit; and day by day but half her share had she eaten. The other
half had gone into the well-filled pouch.
"And she said: 'This is the end of the trail for Passuk; but your trail,
Charley, leads on and on, over the great Chilcoot, down to Haines Mission
and the sea. And it leads on and on, by the light of many suns, over
unknown lands and strange waters, and it is full of years and honors and
great glories. It leads you to the lodges of many women, and good women,
but it will never lead you to a greater love than the love of Passuk.'
"And I knew the woman spoke true. But a madness came upon me, and I
threw the well-filled pouch from me, and swore that my trail had reached
an end, till her tired eyes grew soft with tears, and she said: 'Among
men has Sitka Charley walked in honor, and ever has his word been true.
Does he forget that honor now, and talk vain words by the Caribou
Crossing? Does he remember no more the men of Forty Mile, who gave him
of their grub the best, of their dogs the pick? Ever has Passuk been
proud of her man. Let him lift himself up, gird on his snowshoes, and
begone, that she may still keep her pride.'
"And when she grew cold in my arms I arose, and sought out the
well-filled pouch, and girt on my snowshoes, and staggered along the
trail; for there was a weakness in my knees, and my head was dizzy, and
in my ears there was a roaring, and a flashing of fire upon my eyes. The
forgotten trails of boyhood came back to me. I sat by the full pots of
the _potlach_ feast, and raised my voice in song, and danced to the
chanting of the men and maidens and the booming of the walrus drums. And
Passuk held my hand and walked by my side. When I laid down to sleep,
she waked me. When I stumbled and fell, she raised me. When I wandered
in the deep snow, she led me back to the trail. And in this wise, like a
man bereft of reason, who sees strange visions and whose thoughts are
light with wine, I came to Haines Mission by the sea."
Sitka Charley threw back the tent-flaps. It was midday. To the south,
just clearing the bleak Henderson Divide, poised the cold-disked sun. On
either hand the sun-dogs blazed. The air was a gossamer of glittering
frost. In the foreground, beside the trail, a wolf-dog, bristling with
frost, thrust a long snout heavenward and mourned.