148 THE MOOSE 



gone through, pelts and all, where the lake was 

 deeper. 



He had his light axe handy, and matches in case 

 of necessity, and it was not the first time Fate had 

 served him so trickily — not the first time he had 

 contrived a fire in the open, anyhow, and dried his 

 clothes. But it was growing late, and the thought 

 of the shack with its primitive comforts was some- 

 thing he could not put away. Fixing on his snow- 

 shoes to his already stiffening moccasined feet, he 

 went forward slowly, across a waste swept by the 

 wind. 



It cut like a knife. His wet parka — a native- 

 made coat of caribou skin, worn over all for warmth 

 — froze solid, and banged against his ice-cold legs — 

 a sheet of iron. Three pairs of woollen socks, 

 freezing inside his moccasins, held like a cruel vice, 

 and numbed his toes to painless disuse. 



The ropes attached to the sleigh slipped from his 

 shoulders, and he did not pick them up again, but 

 stood a moment looking ahead with unseeing gaze. 



He must sleep. Just for a little while, a quarter 

 of an hour, perhaps, long enough to take the ache 

 from his bones. Here on the snow, beside the 

 sleigh. It would serve as shelter from the wind. 



