That sea was not trackless to Garry. His young eyes, weather-wrinkled at the lids like an old man’s, picked up this mark and that; the wrinkle in the vast white plain that was a river-bed, and the low hills like a rampart, the wedge of spruce that drove to meet them like the vanguard of an army fronting the implacable north. He knew it, was at home here, soul and body. But now he felt a sudden pang of desolation at the thought of the trodden snow about the shack; that ahead was untouched, unmarked. The north receives no impress from man but a few foot-prints in the ever-changing, eternal snow. For all his strength, that was the only mark he had made on this land.
“You quite warm, Kob?”
Kob’s voice came, weak and muffled.
“Well, I ain’t exactly warm.”
“You c’n feel your hands ’n’ feet, Kob?”
“Oh, yes, I feel ’em!”
“That’s all right.” Garry slackened an instant, and shifted the sealskin band that ran from the traces around his chest. It would cut him, eventually, he knew, with that weight behind, in spite of the dried moss he had stuffed into his shirt. The sledge sped on again, swiftly; the miles were marked by no more than the imperceptible advance of the spruce-belt and Garry’s monotonous, careful questions; “You all right, Kob? How’s your feet, Kob? Do you still feel your hands?”
They made the edge of the trees that night under an electric-white moon. The slope of the land had been in Garry’s favour, and the going easy. He set up the tiny tent, packed Kob into the back of it, started the lamp, made tea and cooked pork; then himself slept across the opening, shielding Kob with the warmth of his own body, grimly satisfied. He wondered if he had not set up a new record for single-sledge travelling. Likely enough he had.
The next day was also clear and fair. Kob seemed stronger, and was remarkably cheerful; he sang, under the muffling furs, sang of “Rosalie, the Prairie Flower:”
“Fair as a lily,