Below him flowed a wide and sluggish river. Its unfamiliaritypuzzled him. Slowly he followed it with his eyes， winding inwide sweeps among the bleak， bare hills， bleaker and barerand lower-lying than any hills he had yet encountered. Slowly，deliberately， without excitement or more than the most casualinterest， he followed the course of the strange stream towardthe sky-line and saw it emptying into a bright and shining sea.
He was still unexcited. Most unusual， he thought， a vision or amirage—more likely a vision， a trick of his disordered mind.
He was confirmed in this by sight of a ship lying at anchor inthe midst of the shining sea. He closed his eyes for a while，then opened them. Strange how the vision persisted！ Yet notstrange. He knew there were no seas or ships in the heart of thebarren lands， just as he had known there was no cartridge inthe empty rifle.
He heard a snuffle behind him—a half-choking gasp orcough. Very slowly， because of his exceeding weakness andstiffness， he rolled over on his other side. He could see nothingnear at hand， but he waited patiently. Again came the snuffleand cough， and outlined between two jagged rocks not a scoreof feet away he made out the gray head of a wolf. The sharpears were not pricked so sharply as he had seen them on otherwolves； the eyes were bleared and bloodshot， the head seemedto droop limply and forlornly. The animal blinked continuallyin the sunshine. It seemed sick. As he looked it snuffled andcoughed again.
This， at least， was real， he thought， and turned on the otherside so that he might see the reality of the world which hadbeen veiled from him before by the vision. But the sea stillshone in the distance and the ship was plainly discernible. Wasit reality， after all？ He closed his eyes for a long while andthought， and then it came to him. He had been making northby east， away from the Dease Divide and into the CoppermineValley. This wide and sluggish river was the Coppermine. Thatshining sea was the Arctic Ocean. That ship was a whaler，strayed east， far east， from the mouth of the Mackenzie， and itwas lying at anchor in Coronation Gulf. He remembered theHudson Bay Company chart he had seen long ago， and it wasall clear and reasonable to him.
He sat up and turned his attention to immediate affairs. Hehad worn through the blanket-wrappings， and his feet wereshapeless lumps of raw meat. His last blanket was gone. Rifleand knife were both missing. He had lost his hat somewhere，with the bunch of matches in the band， but the matches againsthis chest were safe and dry inside the tobacco pouch and oilpaper. He looked at his watch. It marked eleven o’clock andwas still running. Evidently he had kept it wound.
He was calm and collected. Though extremely weak， he hadno sensation of pain. He was not hungry. The thought of foodwas not even pleasant to him， and whatever he did was doneby his reason alone. He ripped off his pants’ legs to the kneesand bound them about his feet. Somehow he had succeeded inretaining the tin bucket. He would have some hot water beforehe began what he foresaw was to be a terrible journey to theship.
His movements were slow. He shook as with a palsy. Whenhe started to collect dry moss， he found he could not rise tohis feet. He tried again and again， then contented himself withcrawling about on hands and knees. Once he crawled near tothe sick wolf. The animal dragged itself reluctantly out of hisway， licking its chops with a tongue which seemed hardly tohave the strength to curl. The man noticed that the tongue wasnot the customary healthy red. It was a yellowish brown andseemed coated with a rough and half-dry mucus.
After he had drunk a quart of hot water the man foundhe was able to stand， and even to walk as well as a dyingman might be supposed to walk. Every minute or so he wascompelled to rest. His steps were feeble and uncertain， just asthe wolf’s that trailed him were feeble and uncertain； and thatnight， when the shining sea was blotted out by blackness， heknew he was nearer to it by no more than four miles.
Throughout the night he heard the cough of the sick wolf，and now and then the squawking of the caribou calves. Therewas life all around him， but it was strong life， very much aliveand well， and he knew the sick wolf clung to the sick man’strail in the hope that the man would die first. In the morning，on opening his eyes， he beheld it regarding him with a wistfuland hungry stare. It stood crouched， with tail between its legs，like a miserable and woe-begone dog. It shivered in the chillmorning wind， and grinned dispiritedly when the man spoke toit in a voice that achieved no more than a hoarse whisper.
The sun rose brightly， and all morning the man totteredand fell toward the ship on the shining sea. The weather wasperfect. It was the brief Indian Summer of the high latitudes. Itmight last a week. To-morrow or next day it might he gone.
In the afternoon the man came upon a trail. It was of anotherman， who did not walk， but who dragged himself on all fours.
The man thought it might be Bill， but he thought in a dull，uninterested way. He had no curiosity. In fact， sensation andemotion had left him. He was no longer susceptible to pain.
Stomach and nerves had gone to sleep. Yet the life that was inhim drove him on. He was very weary， but it refused to die. Itwas because it refused to die that he still ate muskeg berriesand minnows， drank his hot water， and kept a wary eye on thesick wolf.
He followed the trail of the other man who dragged himselfalong， and soon came to the end of it—a few fresh-pickedbones where the soggy moss was marked by the foot-pads ofmany wolves. He saw a squat moose-hide sack， mate to hisown， which had been torn by sharp teeth. He picked it up，though its weight was almost too much for his feeble fingers.