By Jack London
“This out of all will remain—
They have lived and have tossed：
So much of the game will be gain，
Though the gold of the dice has been lost.”
They limped painfully down the bank， and once the foremostof the two men staggered among the rough-strewn rocks. Theywere tired and weak， and their faces had the drawn expressionof patience which comes of hardship long endured. They wereheavily burdened with blanket packs which were strappedto their shoulders. Head-straps， passing across the forehead，helped support these packs. Each man carried a rifle. Theywalked in a stooped posture， the shoulders well forward， thehead still farther forward， the eyes bent upon the ground.
“I wish we had just about two of them cartridges that’s layin’
in that cache of ourn，” said the second man.
His voice was utterly and drearily expressionless. He spokewithout enthusiasm； and the first man， limping into the milkystream that foamed over the rocks， vouchsafed no reply.
The other man followed at his heels. They did not removetheir foot-gear， though the water was icy cold—so cold thattheir ankles ached and their feet went numb. In places thewater dashed against their knees， and both men staggered forfooting.
The man who followed slipped on a smooth boulder， nearlyfell， but recovered himself with a violent effort， at the sametime uttering a sharp exclamation of pain. He seemed faintand dizzy and put out his free hand while he reeled， as thoughseeking support against the air. When he had steadied himselfhe stepped forward， but reeled again and nearly fell. Then hestood still and looked at the other man， who had never turnedhis head.
The man stood still for fully a minute， as though debatingwith himself. Then he called out：
“I say， Bill， I’ve sprained my ankle.”
Bill staggered on through the milky water. He did notlook around. The man watched him go， and though his facewas expressionless as ever， his eyes were like the eyes of awounded deer.
The other man limped up the farther bank and continuedstraight on without looking back. The man in the streamwatched him. His lips trembled a little， so that the rough thatchof brown hair which covered them was visibly agitated. Histongue even strayed out to moisten them.
“Bill！” he cried out.
It was the pleading cry of a strong man in distress， butBill’s head did not turn. The man watched him go， limpinggrotesquely and lurching forward with stammering gait up theslow slope toward the soft sky-line of the low-lying hill. Hewatched him go till he passed over the crest and disappeared.
Then he turned his gaze and slowly took in the circle of theworld that remained to him now that Bill was gone.
Near the horizon the sun was smouldering dimly， almostobscured by formless mists and vapors， which gave animpression of mass and density without outline or tangibility.
The man pulled out his watch， the while resting his weight onone leg. It was four o’clock， and as the season was near thelast of July or first of August，—he did not know the precisedate within a week or two，—he knew that the sun roughlymarked the northwest. He looked to the south and knew thatsomewhere beyond those bleak hills lay the Great Bear Lake；also， he knew that in that direction the Arctic Circle cut itsforbidding way across the Canadian Barrens. This stream inwhich he stood was a feeder to the Coppermine River， whichin turn flowed north and emptied into Coronation Gulf andthe Arctic Ocean. He had never been there， but he had seen it，once， on a Hudson Bay Company chart.
Again his gaze completed the circle of the world abouthim. It was not a heartening spectacle. Everywhere was softsky-line. The hills were all low-lying. There were no trees，no shrubs， no grasses—naught but a tremendous and terribledesolation that sent fear swiftly dawning into his eyes.
“Bill！” he whispered， once and twice； “Bill！”
He cowered in the midst of the milky water， as though thevastness were pressing in upon him with overwhelming force，brutally crushing him with its complacent awfulness. Hebegan to shake as with an ague-fit， till the gun fell from hishand with a splash. This served to rouse him. He fought withhis fear and pulled himself together， groping in the water andrecovering the weapon. He hitched his pack farther over onhis left shoulder， so as to take a portion of its weight from offthe injured ankle. Then he proceeded， slowly and carefully，wincing with pain， to the bank.
He did not stop. With a desperation that was madness，unmindful of the pain， he hurried up the slope to the crestof the hill over which his comrade had disappeared—moregrotesque and comical by far than that limping， jerkingcomrade. But at the crest he saw a shallow valley， empty oflife. He fought with his fear again， overcame it， hitched thepack still farther over on his left shoulder， and lurched ondown the slope.
The bottom of the valley was soggy with water， which thethick moss held， spongelike， close to the surface. This watersquirted out from under his feet at every step， and each timehe lifted a foot the action culminated in a sucking sound as thewet moss reluctantly released its grip. He picked his way frommuskeg to muskeg， and followed the other man’s footstepsalong and across the rocky ledges which thrust like isletsthrough the sea of moss.
Though alone， he was not lost. Farther on he knew he wouldcome to where dead spruce and fir， very small and weazened，bordered the shore of a little lake， the titchin-nichilie， in thetongue of the country， the “land of little sticks.” And into thatlake flowed a small stream， the water of which was not milky.