own between him and his finger ends.
     All  of which counted for  little.  There  was the  fire, snapping  and
crackling and promising life with  every dancing flame. He started  to untie
his moccasins. They  were coated with ice; the thick German socks were  like
sheaths  of iron halfway to  the knees;  and the moccasin  strings were like
rods of steel all twisted and knotted as by some conflagration. For a moment
he  tugged with his numb fingers, then,  realizing the folly of it,  he drew
his sheath knife.
     But before he could cut the strings, it happened. It was his  own fault
or, rather, his mistake.  He should not have built the fire under the spruce
tree. He should have built it in the open. But it had been  easier  to  pull
the twigs from  the brush and  drop them directly on the fire.  Now the tree
under which he had done this carried a weight of snow on its boughs. No wind
had blown  for  weeks, and each bough was fully  freighted. Each time he had
pulled on  a  twig he had communicated a  slight agitation  to the  tree--an
imperceptible  agitation, so  far  as he  was  concerned,  but an  agitation
sufficient to bring  about  the disaster.  High  up in the  tree  one  bough
capsized its load of snow. This fell on  the boughs beneath, capsizing them.
This process continued, spreading out  and involving the whole tree. It grew
like an  avalanche, and it  descended without warning upon  the man and  the
fire, and  the fire  was  blotted out! Where it  had burned was a mantle  of
fresh and disordered snow.
     The  man was  shocked.  It was  as though he  had  just heard  his  own
sentence of death. For a moment he sat and stared at the spot where the fire
had been. Then he grew very  calm.  Perhaps the old- timer  on Sulphur Creek
was right. If he  had only had a trail mate he would have  been in no danger
now.  The trail mate could have built the fire. Well,  it was  up  to him to
build a fire over again, and this second time there must be no failure. Even
if he succeeded, he would most likely lose some toes. His feet must be badly
frozen by  now, and there would  be  some time before  the  second fire  was
ready.
     Such were his thoughts, but he did not sit and think them. He  was busy
all the time they  were  passing through his mind. He made a new  foundation
for  a fire, this time in the open, where no treacherous tree could  blot it
out.  Next  he gathered dry  grasses  and tiny  twigs  from the  high  water
flotsam. He could not bring his fingers together to  pull them  out, but  he
was able to gather them by the handful. In this way he got many rotten twigs
and bits of green moss  that were  undesirable, but it was the best he could
do. He worked methodically, even collecting an armful of the larger branches
to be used later when the fire gathered strength. And all the  while the dog
sat and watched him, a  certain  yearning wistfulness in  its  eyes,  for it
looked upon him as the fire provider, and the fire was slow in coming.
     When all was ready, the man reached in his pocket for a second piece of
birch bark. He  knew  the bark was there,  and, though he could  not feel it
with his fingers, he could hear its crisp rustling as he fumbled for it. Try
as  he would,  he  could not  clutch hold of it.  And  all the  time, in his
consciousness, was the knowledge that each  instant his feet were  freezing.
This thought tended to put him in a panic, but he fought against it and kept
calm. He pulled on  his mittens  with his teeth, and thrashed  his arms back
and forth, beating his hands with  all his  might against his  sides. He did
this sitting down, and he stood up  to do it; and all the while the dog  sat
in  the  snow, its  wolf brush  of  a  tail  curled around  warmly over  its
forefeet, its sharp wolf ears  pricked  forward intently as  it  watched the
man. And  the man, as he beat and threshed with his  arms and  hands, felt a
great surge of envy as he regarded the creature that was  warm and secure in
its natural covering.
     After a time he was aware of the first faraway  signals of sensation in
his beaten fingers. The  faint tingling grew stronger till it evolved into a
stinging  ache  that  was  excruciating,  but  which  the  man  hailed  with
satisfaction. He stripped  the mitten from his right hand and fetched  forth
the birch bark. The  exposed fingers were quickly  going numb again. Next he
brought  out  his  bunch  of  sulphur  matches. But the  tremendous cold had
already  driven the  life  out of his fingers. In his effort to separate one
match from the others, the whole bunch fell in the snow. He tried to pick it
out of  the  snow,  but  failed. The  dead fingers could neither  touch  nor
clutch. He was  very careful. He drove the thought of his freezing feet, and
nose, and cheeks, out of his mind, devoting his  whole soul to the  matches.
He watched, using the sense of vision in place of that of touch, and when he
saw  his fingers on each side  the bunch, he closed them--that is, he willed
to close  them, for  the wires were  down, and the  fingers did not obey. He
pulled the mitten on the right hand, and beat it fiercely against  his knee.
Then, with both mittened hands, he scooped the bunch  of matches, along with
much snow, into his lap. Yet he was no better off.
     After some manipulation  he managed to  get the bunch between the heels
of his mittened hands. In  this  fashion he carried it to his mouth. The ice
crackled and snapped when by a  violent effort he opened his  mouth. He drew
the lower jaw in, curled the upper lip out of the way, and scraped the bunch
with his upper  teeth in  order to separate a match. He succeeded in getting
one, which he dropped on his lap. He was no better off. He could not pick it
up. Then he devised a way. He  picked it up in his teeth and scratched it on
his leg. Twenty times he scratched before he succeeded in lighting it. As if
flamed  he  held  it with  his  teeth to the  birch  bark.  But the  burning
brimstone went up his  nostrils and  into his lungs,  causing  him  to cough
spasmodically. The match fell into the snow and went out.
     The old-timer  on Sulphur Creek  was right, he thought in the moment of
controlled despair that ensued:  after fifty below, a man should travel with
a partner. He beat his hands, but failed in exciting any sensation. Suddenly
he bared both  hands, removing  the mittens  with his  teeth. He caught  the
whole bunch between the heels of his hands. His arm muscles not being frozen
enabled him to press the  hand heels tightly  against  the matches. Then  he
scratched the  bunch along his  leg.  It  flared into flame, seventy sulphur
matches at once! There was no wind to blow them out. He kept his head to one
side to escape  the strangling  fumes, and held  the  blazing bundle  to the
birch  bark. As he so held it, he became aware of sensation in his hand. His
flesh  ws burning. He could smell it. Deep down  below the surface he  could
feel  it. The sensation  developed into pain that grew acute. And  still  he
endured it, holding the flame of the matches clumsily to the bark that would
not light readily because his own burning  hands were in the way,  absorbing
most of the flame.
     At last, when  he  could endure no more, he jerked his hands apart. The
blazing matches fell  sizzling into the snow, but the birch bark was alight.
He began laying dry grasses and the tiniest twigs on the flame. He could not
pick and choose, for he had to lift the fuel between the heels of his hands.
Small pieces  of rotten wood and  green moss clung to the twigs,  and he bit
them  off  as well  as  he could  with  his  teeth. He  cherished  the flame
carefully  and  awkwardly.  It meant life  , and  it  must  not perish.  The
withdrawal  of  blood  from  the surface  of his body now made  him begin to
shiver, and he grew  more awkward. A large piece of green moss fell squarely
on  the little fire. He tried to poke it with his fingers, but his shivering
frame made him poke  too  far, and  he  disrupted the nucleus of the  little
fire, the burning grasses and tiny twigs separating and scattering. He tried
to poke them together  again, but in spite of  the  tenseness of the effort,
his shivering got away  with  him, and the twigs were hopelessly  scattered.
Each twig gushed a puff of smoke and went out. The fire provider had failed.
As he  looked apathetically about him, his eyes chanced  on the dog, sitting
across  the ruins  of  the  fire  from him,  in  the snow, making  restless,
hunching  movements,  slightly  lifting one  forefoot  and  then  the other,
shifting its weight back and forth on them with wistful eagerness.
     The sight of the dog  put a wild idea into his head. He  remembered the
tale of the man, caught in a blizzard, who killed a steer and crawled inside
the carcass, and so  was saved.  He would kill the dog and bury his hands in
the  warm  body  until the  numbness  went out  of them. Then he could build
another fire. He spoke to the dog, calling it to him; but in his voice was a
strange note of fear that frightened the animal, who had never known the man
to speak in such  a way before. something was the matter, and its suspicious
nature sensed danger-it knew not what danger, but somewhere, somehow, in its
brain arose an apprehension of  the man. It flattened its  ears down  at the
sound of the man's voice,  and its restless, hunching movements and liftings
and shiftings  of its forefeet became more pronounced; but it would not come
to the  man. He got on  his hands and knees and crawled toward the dog. This
unusual  posture again  excited suspicion,  and the animal sidled  mincingly
away.
     The man sat  up in the snow  for a moment  and struggled  for calmness.
Then he pulled on his mittens, by means of his teeth, and got upon his feet.
He glanced down  at  first  in order  to assure  himself that he  was really
standing up,  for the absence of sensation in his feet left him unrelated to
the  earth. His  erect  position in itself  started  to drive  the  webs  of
suspicion from the dog's mind;  and  when he  spoke  peremptorily, with  the
sound of whip lashes in his voice, the dog rendered its customary allegiance
and came to  him.  As it came within  reaching  distance,  the  man lost his
control.  His  arms flashed  out  to  the dog,  and  he  experienced genuine
surprise when he discovered that his hands could not clutch, that  there was
neither bend nor feeling  in  the  fingers.  He had forgotten for the moment
that they were frozen  and that they were freezing  more  and more. All this
happened quickly, and before the  animal  could get  away, he  encircled its
body  with  his arms. He sat down in the snow, and in this fashion  held the
dog, while it snarled and whined and struggled.
     But it was all he could do, hold its body encircled in his arms and sit
there. He  realized that he could not  kill the dog. There was no way to  do
it. With his helpless hands he could neither draw nor hold his  sheath knife
nor throttle  the animal.  He released it, and it  plunged wildly away, with
tail  between  its legs,  and  still snarling.  It  halted  forty feet  away
surveyed him curiously, with ears sharply pricked forward.
     The man  looked  down at his  hands in order  to locate them, and found
them  hanging  on the ends of  his arms. It struck him as  curious that  one
should have to use his eyes in order  to  find out where his hands  were. He
began threshing his arms back and forth, beating  the mittened hands against
his  sides. He  did this  for  five minutes, violently, and his heart pumped
enough  blood up  to the surface  to  put a stop  to his  shivering. But  no
sensation was aroused in his hands. He had an impression that they hung like
weights on  the ends of  his arms, but when  he tried  to run the impression
down, he could not find it.
     A certain fear of death,  dull and oppressive, came  to him.  This fear
quickly became  poignant  as he realized that it was no longer a mere matter
of freezing his fingers and  toes, or of losing his hands and feet, but that
it was a matter of life  and death with the  chances against him. This threw
him into a panic, and he turned and ran up the creek bed along the old,  dim
trail.  The  dog joined in behind and kept  up with  him.  He  ran  blindly,
without intention, in fear such as he had never known in his life.
     Slowly, as  he plowed and floundered  through the snow, he began to see
things again--the  banks of  the creek,  the old  timber jams,  the leafless
aspens,  and the sky.  the running made him feel  better. He did not shiver.
Maybe, if he  ran on, his  feet would thaw out; and, anyway,  if he ran  far
enough, he would  reach camp and  the boys. Without doubt he would lose some
fingers and toes and some of his face; but the boys  would take care of him,
and save the rest of him  when he  got there. And at the same time there was
another thought in his mind that said he would never get to the camp and the
boys; that it was  too many  miles away, that  the freezing had too great  a
start on him, and that he would soon be stiff and dead. This thought he kept
in  the  background  and  refused  to  consider.  Sometimes it pushed itself
forward and demanded to be heard, but he thrust it  back and strove to think
of other things.
     It struck him  as  curious  that he could run at  all on feet so frozen
that he  could not feel them when they struck the earth and took  the weight
of  his body. He seemed  to himself to skim along above the surface,  and to
have  no connection with  the earth.  Somewhere  he had  once seen a  winged
Mercury, and he wondered if Mercury felt as  he felt  when skimming over the
earth.
     His theory of  running until he reached  camp and the boys had one flaw
in it; he lacked the endurance.  Several times he stumbled,  and  finally he
tottered, crumpled up,  and fell. When he tried to rise, he failed. He  must
sit  and rest, he decided, and next time  he  would merely walk and  keep on
going. As he sat and regained his breath, he noted that he was feeling quite
warm and comfortable. He  was not shivering,  and it even seemed that a warm
glow had come to his chest and trunk. And  yet, when he  touched his nose or
cheeks, there was no sensation. Running would not thaw them  out. Nor  would
it thaw out his hands and feet. Then the thought came to him that the frozen
portions of his body must be extending. He tried to keep this  thought down,
to  forget it,  to  think of something else; he  was  aware of  the  panicky
feeling that  it caused,  and he was afraid of  the  panic. But the  thought
asserted itself,  and  persisted,  until it produced  a  vision  of his body
totally  frozen. This was too  much,  and he made another wild run along the
trail.  Once he  slowed down  to  a walk,  but  the  thought of the freezing
extending itself made him run again.
     And all the  time the dog ran with him, at his heels. When he fell down
a second time, it curled its tail over its forefeet and sat in front of him,
facing  him, curiously  eager and intent.  The  warmth and  security of  the
animal  angered  him,  and he  cursed it  till  it  flattened down  its ears
appeasingly. This time the shivering came more quickly upon the man. He  was
losing  his battle  with  the frost.  It was creeping into his body from all
sides.  The  thought of it drove him on, but he  ran no more than  a hundred
feet, when he staggered and pitched headlong. It was his last panic. When he
had recovered his breath and  control, he sat up and entertained in his mind
the  conception  of meeting death with dignity. However, the conception  did
not come to him in such terms. His idea of it was that  he had been making a
fool of himself, running around like  a chicken with its head cut off-- such
was the simile that occurred to him. Well, he  was bound to  freeze  anyway,
and he  might as  well take it  decently. With this new-found peace of  mind
came the first  glimmerings of drowsiness. A good idea, he thought, to sleep
off to death. It was like  taking  an anesthetic. Freezing was not  so bad a
people thought. There were lots worse ways to die.
     He  pictured  the  boys finding  his body next  day.  Suddenly he found
himself  with them,  coming along  the trail  and  looking for himself. And,
still with them, he came around a turn in the trail and found himself lying
in the snow. He  did not belong with himself any  more, for even then he was
out of  himself, standing  with the boys and looking at himself in the snow.
It certainly was  cold, was his thought. When he got  back to the  States he
could tell the folks what real cold was. He drifted on from this to a vision
of the old-timer on Sulphur  Creek. He could see him quite clearly, warm and
comfortable, and smoking a pipe.
     Then  the man drowsed off into what seemed  to him the most comfortable
and satisfying sleep he had ever known. The dog sat  facing and waiting. The
brief day drew to a close in a long, slow twilight. There were no signs of a
fire to be made, and,  besides, never in the dog's experience had it known a
man to sit like that in the snow and make no fire. As the twilight  drew on,
its eager yearning for the fire mastered it, and with

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