The caribou fell, jumped up, ran down the slope, and fell again to rise no more.
An hour of rest, with fire and meat, changed the world to the hunters; still glistening, it yet had lost its bitter cold its deathlike clutch.
"What's this ?" cried Jones.
Moccasin tracks of different sizes, all toeing north, arrested the hunters.
"Pointed north! Wonder what thet means ?" Rea plodded on, doubtfully shaking his head.
Night again, clear, cold, silver, starlit, silent night! The hunters rested, listening ever for the haunting mourn.

Day again, white, passionless, monotonous, silent day.

The hunters traveled on--on--on, ever listening for the haunting mourn.
Another dusk found them within thirty miles of their cabin.

Only one more day now.
Rea talked of his furs, of the splendid white furs he could not bring.
Jones talked of his little muskoxen calves and joyfully watched them dig for moss in the snow.
Vigilance relaxed that night.

Outworn nature rebelled, and both hunters slept.
Rea awoke first, and kicking off the blankets, went out.