and filled it with boughs.  This done, he unhitched and fed both teams, spread Rock’s sleeping-bag under the shelter, and set a pail of snow to melt.  By the light of the fire he examined the latter’s injury, but could make little of it, for already it was badly swollen and every manipulation caused its owner extreme pain.  There were no remedies available; there was not even a vessel of sufficient size in which to bathe the foot; hence ’Poleon contented himself by bandaging it and helping his trail-mate into bed.

Not since leaving Dawson had either man tasted hot food, but their hunger was as nothing to their thirst.  Even in this length of time their bodies had shrunk, withered, inside their clothing, and for perhaps an hour they took turns greedily draining the pail of its tepid contents.  Under intense cold the human body consumes itself at a rapid rate.  Once it has burned itself out it preys upon those deep-hidden forces which nature holds in reserve, and the process of recuperation waits upon a restoration of a normal balance of moisture.

Both men were weighed down by an aching, nightmare fatigue, and as they sat gulping hot water, absorbing heat from within and without, their muscles set and they felt as if their limbs had turned to stone.

But, once the first mad craving for drink had been assuaged, they fried bacon and made tea.  Like wolves they fell upon the salt meat; they dipped the hot grease up in their spoons and swallowed it with relish; they crunched their hardtack and washed the powdery mouthfuls down with copious draughts from the blackened pail.  When the tea was gone they brewed another scalding bucketful.

Rock lay back, finally, but the movement caused him to bare his teeth in agony.  At ’Poleon’s quick inquiry he shook his head.

“I’m all right,” he declared.  “Good for the night.  You can pull out any time you want to.”

“Dere’s plenty tam.”  ’Poleon lit his pipe and reached again for the tea-bucket.

“Better go before you stiffen up.”

“I go bimeby—­sooner I get li’l drinkin’ done.”

“They’ll fight,” Rock announced, after a silence of perhaps five minutes.  “I feel pretty rotten, playing out like this.”

“You done firs’ rate,” the woodsman told him.  “If I come alone I catch ’em ten mile below, but—­li’l tam, more less, don’ mak’ no differ.”

“I believe you would have got ’em,” the officer acknowledged.  After a time he persisted:  “They’ll put up a battle, Doret.  You’ll need to be careful.”

’Poleon was squatted Indian fashion over the blaze; he was staring fixedly into the flames, and an aboriginal reticence had settled upon him.  After a long time he answered:  “Mebbe so I keel de beeg feller.  I dunno.  So long one is lef’ I mak’ him clear dat boy Phillips.”

“Decent of you to take a chance like that for Pierce,” Rock resumed.  “It’s different with me; I have to do it.  Just the same, I wouldn’t care to follow those fellows over the Boundary.  I don’t think you’d better try it.”