While the Colonel and the Boy were staking out this future stronghold of trade and civilisation it came on to snow; but “Can’t last this time o’ year,” the Colonel consoled himself, and thanked God “the big, unending snows are over for this season.”

So they pushed on.  But the Colonel seemed to have thanked God prematurely.  Down the snow drifted, soft, sticky, unending.  The evening was cloudy, and the snow increased the dimness overhead as well as the heaviness under foot.  They never knew just where it was in the hours between dusk and dark that they lost the trail.  The Boy believed it was at a certain steep incline that Nig did his best to rush down.

“I thought he was at his tricks,” said the Boy ruefully some hours after.  “I believe I’m an ass, and Nig is a gentleman and a scholar.  He knew perfectly what he was about.”

“Reckon we’ll camp, pardner.”

“Reckon we might as well.”

After unharnessing the dogs, the Boy stood an instant looking enviously at them as he thawed out his stiff hands under his parki.  Exhausted and smoking hot, the dogs had curled down in the snow as contented-looking as though on a hearth-rug before a fire, sheltering their sharp noses with their tails.

“Wish I had a tail to shelter my face,” said the Boy, as if a tail were the one thing lacking to complete his bliss.

“You don’t need any shelter now,” answered the Colonel.

“Your face is gettin’ well—­” And he stopped suddenly, carried back to those black days when he had vainly urged a face-guard.  He unpacked their few possessions, and watched the Boy take the axe and go off for wood, stopping on his way, tired as he was, to pull Nig’s pointed ears.  The odd thing about the Boy was that it was only with these Indian curs—­Nig in particular, who wasn’t the Boy’s dog at all—­only with these brute-beasts had he seemed to recover something of that buoyancy and ridiculous youngness that had first drawn the Colonel to him on the voyage up from ’Frisco.  It was also clear that if the Boy now drew away from his pardner ever so little, by so much did he draw nearer to the dogs.

He might be too tired to answer the Colonel; he was seldom too tired to talk nonsense to Nig, never too tired to say, “Well, old boy,” or even “Well, pardner,” to the dumb brute.  It was, perhaps, this that the Colonel disliked most of all.

Whether the U.S.  Agent at Nulato was justified or not in saying all the region hereabouts was populous in the summer with Indian camps, the native winter settlements, the half-buried ighloo, or the rude log-hut, where, for a little tea, tobacco, or sugar, you could get as much fish as you could carry, these welcome, if malodorous, places seemed, since they lost the trail, to have vanished off the face of the earth.  No question of the men sharing the dogs’ fish, but of the dogs sharing the men’s bacon and meal.  That night the meagre supper was more meagre