Long since Whaley had been forced to take the dogs into the cabin to save them from freezing to death.  It was impossible for any of the three human beings to venture out for more than a few minutes at a time.  Even then they had to keep close to the walls in order not to lose contact with the house.

When feeding-time came the dogs made pandemonium.  They were half-famished, as teams in the Lone Lands usually are, and the smell of the frozen fish thawing before the fire set them frantic.  West and Whaley protected Jessie while she turned the fish.  This was not easy.  The plunging animals almost rushed the men off their feet.  They had to be beaten back cruelly with the whip-stocks, for they were wild as wolves and only the sharpest pain would restrain them.

The half-thawed fish were flung to them in turn.  There was a snarl, a snap of the jaws, a gulp, and the fish was gone.  Over one or two that fell in the pack the train worried and fought, with sharp yelps and growls, until the last fragment had been torn to pieces and disappeared.

Afterward the storm-bound trio drank tea and ate pemmican, still fighting back the pack.  West laid open the nose of one in an ugly cut with the iron-bound end of his whip-butt.  Perhaps he was not wholly to blame.  Many of the dog-trains of the North are taught to understand nothing but the sting of the whip and will respond only to brutal treatment.

The second night was a repetition of the first.  The three were divided into two camps.  Whaley or Jessie McRae watched West every minute.  There was a look in his eye they distrusted, a sulky malice back of which seemed to smoke banked fires of murderous desire.  He lay on the floor and slept a good deal in short cat-naps.  Apparently his dreams were not pleasant.  He would growl incoherently through set teeth and clench great hairy fists in spasms of rage.  Out of these he wakened with a start to glare around suspiciously at the others.  It was clear the thought was in the back of his mind that they might destroy him while he was asleep.

Throughout the third day the storm continued unabated.  Whaley and West discussed the situation.  Except for a few pounds of fish, their provisions were gone.  If the blizzard did not moderate, they would soon face starvation.

During the night the wind died down.  Day broke clear, a faint and wintry sun in the sky.

To West the other man made a proposal.  “Have to get out and hunt food.  We’ll find caribou in some of the coulees along the creek.  What say?”

The convict looked at him with sly cunning.  “How about this girl?  Think I’m gonna leave her to mush out an’ put the police on my trail?  No, sir.  I’ll take her snowshoes with me.”

Whaley shrugged his shoulders.  “She couldn’t find her way home if she had shoes.  But please yourself about that.”

West’s shifty gaze slid over him.  The proposal of a hunt suited him.  He must have a supply of food to carry him to Lookout.  Whaley was a good shot and an expert trailer.  If there were caribou or moose in the vicinity, he was likely to make a kill.  In any event there would be hundreds of white rabbits scurrying through the woods.  He decided craftily to make use of the gambler, and after he was through with him—­