Shortly after the Eskimos left us we heard some ptarmigans clucking outside, and Easton knocked three of them over with Potokomik’s rifle. There were four, but one got away. It can be imagined what work the .45 bullet made of them. After separating the flesh as far as possible from the feathers, we boiled it in a tin can we had found amongst the rubbish in the hut, and ate everything but the bills and toe-nails—bones, entrails and all. This, it will be remembered, was the first food that we had had since noon of the day before. We had no tea and our only comfort-providing asset was one small piece of plug tobacco.
Fortunately wood was not hard to get, but still not sufficiently plentiful for us to have more than a light fire in the stove, which we hugged pretty closely.
The storm grew in fury. It shrieked around our illy built shack, drifting the snow in through the holes and crevices until we could not find a place to sit or lie that was free from it. On the night of the third day the weather cleared and settled, cold and rasping. I took the rifle and looked about for game, but the snow was now so deep that walking far in it was out of the question. I did not see the track or sign of any living thing save a single whisky-jack, but even he was shy and kept well out of range.
We had nothing to eat—not a mouthful of anything—and only water to drink; even our tobacco was soon gone. Day after day we sat, sometimes in silence, for hours at a time, sometimes calculating upon the probabilities of the Eskimos having perished in the storm, for they were wholly without protection. I had faith in Potokomik and his resourcefulness, and was hopeful they would get out safely. If there had been timber in the country where night shelter could be made, we might have started for Whale River without further delay. But in the wide waste barrens, illy clothed, with deep snow to wallow through, it seemed to me absolutely certain that such an attempt would end in exhaustion and death, so we restrained our impatience and waited. On scraps of paper we played tit-tat-toe; we improvised a checkerboard and played checkers. These pastimes broke the monotony of waiting somewhat. No matter what we talked about, our conversation always drifted to something to eat. We planned sumptuous banquets we were to have at that uncertain period “when we get home,” discussing in the minutest detail each dish. Once or twice Easton roused me in the night to ask whether after all some other roast or soup had not better be selected than the one we had decided upon, or to suggest a change in vegetables.
We slept five times instead of thrice and still no succor came. The days were short, the nights interminably long. I knew we could live for twelve or fifteen days easily on water. I had recovered entirely from the chills and cramps and we were both feeling well but, of course, rather weak. We had lost no flesh to speak of. The extreme hunger had passed away after a couple of days. It is only when starving people have a little to eat that the hunger period lasts longer than that. Novelists write a lot of nonsense about the pangs of hunger and the extreme suffering that accompanies starvation. It is all poppycock. Any healthy person, with a normal appetite, after missing two or three meals is as hungry as he ever gets. After awhile there is a sense of weakness that grows on one, and this increases with the days. Then there comes a desire for a great deal of sleep, a sort of lassitude that is not unpleasant, and this desire becomes more pronounced as the weakness grows. The end is always in sleep. There is no keeping awake until the hour of death.
While, as I have said, the real sense of hunger passes away quickly there remains the instinct to eat. That is the working of the first law of nature—self-preservation. It prompts one to eat anything that one can chew or swallow, and it is what makes men eat refuse the thought of which would sicken them at other times. Of course, Easton and I were like everybody else under similar conditions. Easton said one day that he would like to have something to chew on. In the refuse on the floor I found a piece of deerskin about ten inches square. I singed the hair off of it and divided it equally between us and then we each roasted our share and ate it. That was the evening after we had “slept” five times.
After disposing of our bit of deerskin we huddled down on the floor with our heads pillowed upon sticks of wood, as was our custom, for a sixth night, after discussing again the probable fate of the Eskimos. While I did not admit to Easton that I entertained any doubt as to our ultimate rescue, as the days passed and no relief came I felt grave fears as to the safety of Potokomik and his companions. The severe storm that swept over the country after their departure from the shack had no doubt materially deepened the snow, and I questioned whether or not this had made it impossible for them to travel without snowshoes. The wind during the second day of the storm had been heavy, and it was my hope that it had swept the barrens clear of the new snow, but this was uncertain and doubtful. Then, too, I did not know the nature of Eskimos—whether they were wont to give up quickly in the face of unusual privations and difficulties such as these men would have to encounter. They were in a barren country, with no food, no blankets, no tent, no protection, in fact, of any kind from the elements, and it was doubtful whether they would find material for a fire at night to keep them from freezing, and, even if they did find wood, they had no ax with which to cut it. How far they would have to travel surrounded by these conditions I had no idea. Indians without wood or food or a sheltering bush would soon give up the fight and lie down to die. If Potokomik and his men had perished, I knew that Easton and I could hope for no relief from the outside and that our salvation would depend entirely upon our own resourcefulness. It seemed to me the time had come when some action must be taken.
It was a long while after dark, I do not know how long, and I still lay awake turning these things over in my mind, when I heard a strange sound. Everything had been deathly quiet for days, and I sat up. In the great unbroken silence of the wilderness a man’s fancy will make him hear strange things. I have answered the shouts of men that my imagination made me hear. But this was not fancy, for I heard it again—a distinct shout! I jumped to my feet and called to Easton: “They’ve come, boy! Get up, there’s some one coming!” Then I hurried outside and, in the dim light on the white stretch of snow, saw a black patch of men and dogs. Our rescuers had come.