The thought made the old man panicky for the moment, and he stretched forth a palsied hand which wandered tremblingly over the small heap of dry wood beside him.  Reassured that it was indeed there, his hand returned to the shelter of his mangy furs, and he again fell to listening.  The sulky crackling of half-frozen hides told him that the chief’s moose-skin lodge had been struck, and even then was being rammed and jammed into portable compass.  The chief was his son, stalwart and strong, head man of the tribesmen, and a mighty hunter.  As the women toiled with the camp luggage, his voice rose, chiding them for their slowness.  Old Koskoosh strained his ears.  It was the last time he would hear that voice.  There went Geehow’s lodge!  And Tusken’s!  Seven, eight, nine; only the shaman’s could be still standing.  There!  They were at work upon it now.  He could hear the shaman grunt as he piled it on the sled.  A child whimpered, and a woman soothed it with soft, crooning gutturals.  Little Koo-tee, the old man thought, a fretful child, and not overstrong.  It would die soon, perhaps, and they would burn a hole through the frozen tundra and pile rocks above to keep the wolverines away.  Well, what did it matter?  A few years at best, and as many an empty belly as a full one.  And in the end, Death waited, ever-hungry and hungriest of them all.

What was that?  Oh, the men lashing the sleds and drawing tight the thongs.  He listened, who would listen no more.  The whip-lashes snarled and bit among the dogs.  Hear them whine!  How they hated the work and the trail!  They were off!  Sled after sled churned slowly away into the silence.  They were gone.  They had passed out of his life, and he faced the last bitter hour alone.  No.  The snow crunched beneath a moccasin; a man stood beside him; upon his head a hand rested gently.  His son was good to do this thing.  He remembered other old men whose sons had not waited after the tribe.  But his son had.  He wandered away into the past, till the young man’s voice brought him back.

“Is it well with you?” he asked.

And the old man answered, “It is well.”

“There be wood beside you,” the younger man continued, “and the fire burns bright.  The morning is gray, and the cold has broken.  It will snow presently.  Even now is it snowing.”

“Ay, even now is it snowing.”

“The tribesmen hurry.  Their bales are heavy, and their bellies flat with lack of feasting.  The trail is long and they travel fast.  I go now.  It is well?”

“It is well.  I am as a last year’s leaf, clinging lightly to the stem.  The first breath that blows, and I fall.  My voice is become like an old woman’s.  My eyes no longer show me the way of my feet, and my feet are heavy, and I am tired.  It is well.”