Later, in hunting, I crossed their tracks several times, and once I saw them across a barren; but I left them undisturbed, to follow other trails.  We had eaten together; they had fed from my hand; and there is no older truce on earth than that, not even in the unchanging East, where it originated.

Megaleep in a storm is a most curious creature, the nearest thing to a ghost to be found in the woods.  More than other animals he feels the falling barometer.  His movements at such times drive you to desperation, if you are following him; for he wanders unceasingly.  When the storm breaks he has a way of appearing suddenly, as if he were seeking you, when by his trail you thought him miles ahead.  And the way he disappears—­just melts into the thick driving flakes and the shrouded trees—­is most uncanny.  Six or seven caribou once played hide-and-seek with me that way, giving me vague glimpses here and there, drawing near to get my scent, yet keeping me looking up wind into the driving snow where I could see nothing distinctly.  And all the while they drifted about like so many huge flakes of the storm, watching my every movement, seeing me perfectly.

At such times they fear little, and even lay aside their usual caution.  I remember trailing a large herd one day from early morning, keeping near them all the time, and jumping them half a dozen times, yet never getting a glimpse because of their extreme watchfulness.  For some reason they were unwilling to leave a small chain of barrens.  Perhaps they knew the storm was coming, when they would be safe; and so, instead of swinging off into a ten-mile straightaway trot at the first alarm, they kept dodging back and forth within a two-mile circle.  At last, late in the afternoon, I followed the trail to the edge of dense evergreen thickets.  Caribou generally rest in open woods or on the windward edge of a barren.  Eyes for the open, nose for the cover, is their motto.  And I thought, “They know perfectly well I am following them, and so have lain down in that tangle.  If I go in, they will hear me; a wood mouse could hardly keep quiet in such a place.  If I go round, they will catch my scent; if I wait, so will they; if I jump them, the scrub will cover their retreat perfectly.”

As I sat down in the snow to think it over, a heavy rush deep within the thicket told me that something, not I certainly, had again started them.  Suddenly the air darkened, and above the excitement of the hunt I felt the storm coming.  A storm in the woods is no joke when you are six miles from camp without axe or blanket.  I broke away from the trail and started for the head of the second barren on the run.  If I could make that, I was safe; for there was a stream near, which led near to camp; and one cannot very well lose a stream, even in a snowstorm.  But before I was halfway the flakes were driving thick and soft in my face.  Another half-mile, and one could not see fifty feet in any direction.  Still