"I'm going to look for a caribou," he said. "I'll be back by dark."
"We'll have snow," said Harding. "If there's much, you'll find it hard to get home."
"I'd find it harder to do without breakfast and supper, which is what may happen very soon," Blake rejoined. "One can eat the tripe de roche which grows upon the stones, but I don't know where to look for it, and a North-West Police trooper who once tried it told me that it made him very ill."
"Anyway, you had better take one of us along."
"With the axe?" Blake said, laughing. "It's bad enough to reach a caribou with a rifle, and Benson's as poor a hand at stalking as I know, while a day's rest may save you from getting a snowshoe leg. As we haven't a sledge, it would be awkward to carry you to the factory."
They let him go, but when he reached the open his face hardened. The sky had a threatening look, the snow was soft, and there were wolves about, but he was comparatively safe while daylight lasted and food must be found. During the morning he saw wolf tracks, but no sign of a deer, and at noon sat down for a few minutes in a sheltered hollow and managed to light the half-frozen pipe he kept in an inner pocket. He had brought nothing to eat, since they had decided that it would be prudent to dispense with a midday meal, and getting stiffly on his feet by and by, he plodded from bluff to bluff throughout the afternoon. For the most part, they were thin and the trees very small, while so far as he could make out the country between them was covered with slabs of rocks and stones. It was utterly empty, with no sign of life in it, but he continued his search until the light began to fail, when he stopped to look about.
No snow had fallen, but the sky was very thick and a stinging wind had risen, while he would have trouble in reaching camp if his trail got drifted up. He knew he should have turned back earlier, but there was what seemed to be an extensive wood in front, and he could not face the thought of returning empty-handed to his scanty, unearned supper. The grey trees were not far away; he might reach them and make a mile or two on the back trail before dark, though he was weary and hunger had given him a pain in his left side.
Quickening his pace, he neared the bluff, which looked very black and shadowy against the snow, though the latter was fading to a curious, lifeless grey. The trees were stunted and scattered, which made it possible for him to get through, though there were half-covered, fallen branches which entangled his big shoes. He could see no tracks of any animal and hardly expected to do so, but in a savage mood he held on without much caution until he entered a belt of broken ground strewn with rocky hillocks. Here he could not see where he was going and it was almost dark in the hollows, but he had found that chance sometimes favours the hunter as much as careful stalking. Stopping for breath a moment, half way up a steep ascent, he started, for a shadowy object unexpectedly appeared upon the summit. It was barely distinguishable against the background of trees, but he saw the broad-tined horns in an opening and knew it for a caribou.
There was no time to lose, since the swift creature would take flight in an instant, and almost as he caught sight of it the rifle went up to his shoulder. For a moment the foresight wavered across the indistinct form, and then his numbed hands grew steady, and, trusting that nothing would check the frost-clogged action, he pressed the trigger. He felt the jar of the butt, a little smoke blew in his eyes, and he could make out nothing on the crest of the ridge. It, however, seemed impossible that he had missed and next moment he heard a heavy floundering in the snow among the rocks above. He went up the slope at a savage run and plunged down a precipitous hollow, on the farther side of which a half-seen object was moving through the gloom of the trees. Stopping a moment, he threw up the rifle and after the thin red flash the deer staggered and collapsed.
Running on in desperate haste, he fell upon it with his hunting knife; and then stopped, feeling strangely limp and breathless, with the long blade dripping in his hand. Now the caribou lay dead before him, the strain of the last few minutes made itself felt. Surprised when exhausted and weak from want of food by an opportunity he had not looked for, he had forced upon himself sufficient steadiness to shoot. It had cost him an effort; the short fierce chase had tried him hard, and now the reaction had set in. For all that, he was conscious of a savage, exultant excitement. Here was food, and food meant life.