Camped well in the dark and forbidding gorge, over their pipe that evening they complained of the heat, and both agreed that the thermometer must be above zero—­the first time in six months.

“Nobody ever heard tell of a panther this far north,” Daw was saying.  “Rocky called it a cougar.  But I shot a-many of ’em down in Curry County, Oregon, where I come from, an’ we called ’em panther.  Anyway, it was a bigger cat than ever I seen.  It was sure a monster cat.  Now how’d it ever stray to such out of the way huntin’ range?—­that’s the question.”

Linday made no comment.  He was nodding.  Propped on sticks, his moccasins steamed unheeded and unturned.  The dogs, curled in furry balls, slept in the snow.  The crackle of an ember accentuated the profound of silence that reigned.  He awoke with a start and gazed at Daw, who nodded and returned the gaze.  Both listened.  From far off came a vague disturbance that increased to a vast and sombre roaring.  As it neared, ever-increasing, riding the mountain tops as well as the canyon depths, bowing the forest before it, bending the meagre, crevice-rooted pines on the walls of the gorge, they knew it for what it was.  A wind, strong and warm, a balmy gale, drove past them, flinging a rocket-shower of sparks from the fire.  The dogs, aroused, sat on their haunches, bleak noses pointed upward, and raised the long wolf howl.

“It’s the Chinook,” Daw said.

“It means the river trail, I suppose?”

“Sure thing.  And ten miles of it is easier than one over the tops.”  Daw surveyed Linday for a long, considering minute.  “We’ve just had fifteen hours of trail,” he shouted above the wind, tentatively, and again waited.  “Doc,” he said finally, “are you game?”

For answer, Linday knocked out his pipe and began to pull on his damp moccasins.  Between them, and in few minutes, bending to the force of the wind, the dogs were harnessed, camp broken, and the cooking outfit and unused sleeping furs lashed on the sled.  Then, through the darkness, for a night of travel, they churned out on the trail Daw had broken nearly a week before.  And all through the night the Chinook roared and they urged the weary dogs and spurred their own jaded muscles.  Twelve hours of it they made, and stopped for breakfast after twenty-seven hours on trail.

“An hour’s sleep,” said Daw, when they had wolfed pounds of straight moose-meat fried with bacon.

Two hours he let his companion sleep, afraid himself to close his eyes.  He occupied himself with making marks upon the soft-surfaced, shrinking snow.  Visibly it shrank.  In two hours the snow level sank three inches.  From every side, faintly heard and near, under the voice of the spring wind, came the trickling of hidden waters.  The Little Peco, strengthened by the multitudinous streamlets, rose against the manacles of winter, riving the ice with crashings and snappings.

Daw touched Linday on the shoulder; touched him again; shook, and shook violently.