"I'll ask you later." The Sergeant knelt down and carefully studied the dead man's pose before he added: "Looks as if he'd been caught in the blizzard and died of exposure; but that's a thing I've got to ascertain. I'll want somebody's help in getting him out of this big coat."
None of them volunteered, but when Lane gave Walthew a sharp order Blake and Harding joined them and the latter afterwards held the fur coat. Blake noticed that he folded and arranged it on his arm with what seemed needless care, though he first turned his back upon the others. Lane was now engaged in examining the body and the others stood watching him, impressed by the scene. All round the narrow opening the spruces rose darkly against the threatening sky, and in its midst the Sergeant bent over the still form. It made a dark blot on the pale glimmer of the snow and the white patch of the face was faintly distinguishable in the fading light. The spruce tops stirred, shaking down loose snow, which fell with a soft patter, and the wind blew trails of it about.
"I can find nothing wrong," Lane said at last.
"Considering that you came across the man lying frozen after one of the worst storms you remember, what did you expect to find?" Harding asked.
"Well," said the Sergeant drily, "it's my duty to make investigations. Though I didn't think it likely, there might have been a knife cut or a bullet hole. Now one of you had better bring up the sledge. We can't break this ground without dynamite, but there are some loose rocks along the foot of the spur."
The sledge was brought and Clarke gently placed on it, wrapped in his fur coat, after which they took the traces and started for the ridge, where they built up a few stones above the hollow in which they laid him. It was quite dark when they had finished, and Lane made a gesture of relief.
"Well," he said, "that's done and he'll lie safely there. Rough on him, but it's a hard country and many a good man has left his bones in it. I guess we'll get back to camp."
They crossed the snow in silence, trailing the empty sledge and for a time after they reached camp nobody spoke. Lane sat near the fire where the light fell upon the book in which he wrote with a pencil held awkwardly in his mittened hand, while Blake watched him and mused. He had no cause to regret Clarke's death, but he felt some pity for the man. Gifted with high ability he had, through no fault of his own, been driven out of a profession he was keenly interested in and made an outcast. His subsequent life had been a hard and evil one, but it had ended in a tragic manner and, what made this more impressive, Blake and his companions had narrowly escaped his fate. In spite of the cheerful fire, the camp had a lonely air, and Blake shivered as he glanced at the gleaming snow and dusky trees that shut it in. There was something in the desolate North that daunted him.
Harding's reflections also centred on the dead man, and he had food for thought. There was a mystery to be explained, and he imagined that he had a clue to it in his pocket, though he could not follow it up for the present. He waited with some anxiety until Lane closed his book.
"Now," said the Sergeant, "there are one or two points I want explained, and as you know the man, it's possible you can help me. How did he come to be here with only about three days' rations?"