Through the howling of the wind Beresford shouted into the ear of Morse.  “Can’t be far now.  Question is can we find Jasper’s in this blizzard.”

Morse shook his head.  It did not seem likely.  Far and near were words which had no meaning.  A white, shrieking monster seemed to be hemming them in.  Their world diminished to the space their outstretched arms could reach.  The only guide they had was Cache Creek, along the bank of which they were traveling.  Jasper’s deserted cabin lay back from it a few hundred yards, but Tom had not any data to tell him when he ought to leave the creek.

Cuffy solved the problem for him.  The St. Bernard stopped, refused the trail Beresford and Morse were beating down in the deep snow.  He raised his head, seemed to scent a haven, whined, and tried to plunge to the left.

McRae came forward and shouted to his friends.  “We’ll gi’e Cuffy his head.  He’ll maybe ken mair than we do the nicht.”

The trail-breakers turned from the creek, occasionally stopping to make sure Cuffy was satisfied.  Through heavy brush they forced a way into a coulee.  The St. Bernard led them plump against the wall of a cabin.

There was a light inside, the fitful, leaping glow of fire flames.  The men stumbled through drifts to the door, McRae in the lead.  The Scotchman found the latch and flung open the door.  The other two followed him inside.

The room was empty.

At first they could not believe their eyes.  It was not reasonable to suppose that any sane human beings would have left a comfortable house to face such a storm.  But this was just what they must have done.  The state of the fire, which was dying down to hot coals, told them it had not been replenished for hours.  West and Whaley clearly had decided they were not safe here and had set out for another hiding-place.

The men looked at each other in blank silence.  The same thought was in the mind of all.  For the present they must give up the pursuit.  It would not be possible to try to carry on any farther in such a blizzard.  Yet the younger men waited for McRae to come to his decision.  If he called on them to do more, they would make a try with him.

“We’ll stay here,” Angus said quietly.  “Build up the fire, lads, and we’ll cast back for Onistah.”

Neither of the others spoke.  They knew it must have cost the Scotchman a pang to give up even for the night.  He had done it only because he recognized that he had no right to sacrifice all their lives in vain.

The dogs took the back trail reluctantly.  The sled had been unloaded and was lighter.  Moreover, they followed a trail already broken except where the sweep of the wind had filled it up.  McRae cheered them to their work.

“Up wi’ ye, Koona!  Guid dog.  Cha, cha!  You’ll be doin’ gran’ work, Cuffy.  Marche!”

Morse stumbled over Onistah where he lay in the trail.  The Blackfoot was still conscious, though he was drowsing into that sleep which is fatal to Arctic travelers caught in a blizzard.  He had crawled on hands and feet through the snow after his knees failed him.  It must have been only a few minutes after he completely collapsed that they found him.