In order to get to the tent he had to go wide of the sled and the savage animals.  He stepped off the trail into the soft snow.  Then he felt suddenly giddy and stood still.  He was afraid to go on for fear he would fall down.  He stood still for a long time, balancing himself on his crippled legs that were trembling violently from weakness.  He looked down and saw the snow reddening at his feet.  The blood flowed freely as ever.  He had not thought the bite was so severe.  He controlled his giddiness and stooped to examine the wound.  The snow seemed rushing up to meet him, and he recoiled from it as from a blow.  He had a panic fear that he might fall down, and after a struggle he managed to stand upright again.  He was afraid of that snow that had rushed up to him.

Then the white glimmer turned black, and the next he knew he was awakening in the snow where he had fallen.  He was no longer giddy.  The cobwebs were gone.  But he could not get up.  There was no strength in his limbs.  His body seemed lifeless.  By a desperate effort he managed to roll over on his side.  In this position he caught a glimpse of the sled and of John Thompson’s black beard pointing skyward.  Also he saw the lead dog licking the face of the man who lay on the trail.  Morganson watched curiously.  The dog was nervous and eager.  Sometimes it uttered short, sharp yelps, as though to arouse the man, and surveyed him with ears cocked forward and wagging tail.  At last it sat down, pointed its nose upward, and began to howl.  Soon all the team was howling.

Now that he was down, Morganson was no longer afraid.  He had a vision of himself being found dead in the snow, and for a while he wept in self-pity.  But he was not afraid.  The struggle had gone out of him.  When he tried to open his eyes he found that the wet tears had frozen them shut.  He did not try to brush the ice away.  It did not matter.  He had not dreamed death was so easy.  He was even angry that he had struggled and suffered through so many weary weeks.  He had been bullied and cheated by the fear of death.  Death did not hurt.  Every torment he had endured had been a torment of life.  Life had defamed death.  It was a cruel thing.

But his anger passed.  The lies and frauds of life were of no consequence now that he was coming to his own.  He became aware of drowsiness, and felt a sweet sleep stealing upon him, balmy with promises of easement and rest.  He heard faintly the howling of the dogs, and had a fleeting thought that in the mastering of his flesh the frost no longer bit.  Then the light and the thought ceased to pulse beneath the tear-gemmed eyelids, and with a tired sigh of comfort he sank into sleep.

THE END OF THE STORY

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