The men crouched for warmth and the shadow of comfort over a miserable fire.  The dogs were beyond, herded far within the shelter, their fierce eyes agleam with a reflection of the feeble firelight as they gazed out hungrily in its direction.  It was a cavernous break in the rock-bound confines of a nameless Northern river.

Steve passed a hand down his face.  He brushed away the moisture of melting ice.  It was a significant gesture, accompanied as it was by a deep breath of weariness.  Two hundred miles and more of Arctic terror lay behind him.  As yet he had no reckoning of how much more lay ahead.

The world outside was lost in a chaos of warring elements.  So it had lain for a week.  In the fury of the blizzard the Arctic night was reduced to a pitchy blackness worse than the sightlessness of the blind.

How long?  It was the question haunting Steve’s mind, and the minds of those others with him.  But the shrieking elements refused to enlighten him.  It was their joy to mock, and taunt, and, if possible, to slay.

Steve rose from his seat over the fire.  He turned and moved towards the mouth of the shelter.  Beyond the light of the fire he had to grope his way.  At the opening the snow was piled high, driven in by the storm.  There was left only the narrowest aperture leading to the black darkness beyond.

He paused at the opening.  He was half buried in the drift, and the lash of the storm whipped his face mercilessly.  For some moments he endured the assault, then his voice came back to the figures of his companions squatting moveless over the fire.

“Ho, you, Julyman!” he called sharply.

Moments later the Indian stood beside the white man, peering out into the desolation beyond.

“She’s not going to last a deal longer.”

Steve was wiping his face with a bare hand.

Julyman missed the movement in the darkness.

“She mak’ him break bimeby soon.  Oh, yes.”

There was something almost heroic in the attempt Julyman made to throw confidence into his tone.  But Steve needed no such support.  He was preoccupied with his own discoveries.  His bare hand was still wiping away the curiously moist snow that beat upon his face.

“Yes,” he said conclusively.  “She’ll break soon.”  Then after a moment:  “She’s breaking now.”

An interruption came from the distant dogs.  It was the snarling yap of a quarrel.  Then came the echo of Oolak’s harsh voice and the thud of his club as he silenced them in the only manner they understood.

Steve’s announcement failed to startle his companion.  Nothing stirred Julyman but the fear of “devil-men,” and his queer native superstitions.

“Him soften.  Oh, yes,” he said.  “Wind him all go west.  Him soft.  Yes.”

The wind had been carrying “forty below zero” on its relentless bosom.  Its ferocity still remained, but now it was tempered by a warmth wholly unaccounted for by the change in its direction.  A western wind in these latitudes was little less terrible than when it blew from the north.  It had over three thousand miles of snow and ice to reduce its temperature.

Steve’s voice again came in the howl of the wind.

“Guess we’ll get back to the fire,” he said decisively.

Julyman needed no second bidding; he turned and moved away.

Back at the fire Oolak watched his companions retake their places.  He had no questions to ask.  He simply waited.  That was his way.  He seemed to live at all times with a mind absorbed.

Steve pointed at the diminished pile of scrub wood.

“Best make up the fire,” he said, addressing Julyman.

The Indian eyed him doubtfully.  Their store of fuel was perilously low.

“Sure,” Steve nodded.  And the Indian obeyed without further demur.

Steve re-lit his pipe and sucked at it comfortably.  Then he spoke with an assurance he could not have displayed earlier.

“Say,” he exclaimed, without looking up from the fire.  “You get the meaning of it?  Maybe you don’t get the meaning I do.”

He laughed.  It was a curious laugh.  It had no mirth.  But it was an expression of feelings which required outlet.

“No.  Maybe you don’t,” he went on.  “You see, I got a notion.  The wind’s west now.  It should be a hell of a cold wind.  It isn’t.  No.  It should be hellish cold,” he reflected.  “Why isn’t it?  The hills lie west.  The big hills.  Maybe the big hill.  Well?  I kind of wonder.  Maybe it’s that.  It’s a guess.  A hell of a guess.  Does the west wind hereabouts blow across the big fire hill?  And are those fires so almighty hot they set the snow melting where all the world’s freezing at 60 deg. below?  Is it a sort of chinook in the dead of winter?”

He raised his eyes to the faces of his companions.  The dusky figures were half hidden behind the smoke of the fire, which rose between them.  He nodded at the steady gazing black eyes.

“Yes,” he said.  “Guess that break’s come.  We’ll be out on the trail right away.  And we’ll beat up against a breeze that’s warming.  It’ll lead us to the Heart of Unaga.”

The splendour of the Arctic night was shining over the world.  There was scarcely a breath of wind.  The air currents were still from the west, but the wind had died out.  For the moment the amazing warmth which had stirred the imagination of Steve and his companions had passed.

A silver sheen played upon the limitless fields of snow.  It was like a world of alabaster.  The light came from every corner of the heavens.  It came from the glory of a full moon, hard-driven to retain supremacy over its satellites.  It came from the myriads of burnished stars, gleaming with a clarity, a penetrating sparkle, unknown to their brethren of lower latitudes.  It came from the supreme magnificence of an aurora of moving light, dancing and curtseying with ghostly grace, as though stepping the measure of a heavenly minuet.  Its radiance filled half the dome of night.  It was a glory of frigid colour to ravish the artist eye.

The men on the trail had lost all sense of degrees of cold.  It was simply cold.  Always cold.  A thermometer would have frozen solid.  They knew that.  Cold?  So long as a strong, warm life burned in their bodies, and their stores of food remained, it was the best they could hope for.

And the dogs.  They were bred to the Arctic cold.  So is the bear of the Pole.  They needed no better than to follow their labours with a couch burrowed beneath the snows, and hours for the dream feast which their ravening appetites yearned and never tasted.

The outfit had broken trail as Steve had promised, and it was moving through the ghostly world like insects a-crawl over the folds of an ill-spread carpet.

The course had been deflected in response to the change of wind.  Steve had left the shelter of the river where it had definitely turned northward.  He had left it without regret.  He had no regret for anything which did not further his purpose.  Adresol!  The quest of the Adresol pastures was the whole aim and object of his life.  Somewhere out there over the desolate wastes he believed the great secret of it all lay awaiting his discovery.  Nothing else, then, was of any significance.

For the moment Nature seemed bent on favouring him.  For over two hundred miles she had beaten him well-nigh breathless.  She had hurled her storms at him without mercy, and, at the end of her transcendent fury, she had found him undismayed, undefeated.  Perhaps his tenacity excited her admiration.  Perhaps she was nursing her wrath for a more terrible onslaught.  Whatever her mood he was ready to face it.

At the beginning of the third week since leaving the shelter on the river Steve trod the first of the western hills under foot, and awaited the coming of the train upon its summit.  His dark, fur-clad figure stood out in relief against the world about him.  It looked squat, it was utterly dwarfed in the twilit vastness.  But there was something tremendous in the meaning of that living presence in the voiceless solitudes which the ages have failed to stir.

The sleds were still.  The dogs lay sprawled for rest awaiting the will of their masters.  Julyman stood abreast of Steve, tall, lean, but bulky in his frosted furs.  Oolak stood over his dogs, which were his first care.

“You can feel it now,” Steve said, thrusting a hand under his fur helmet.  A moment later he withdrew fingers that were moist with sweat.  “If the wind came down at us out of the hills now we’d need to quit our furs.  Do you get that?  Quit our furs here in the dead of winter.  It’s getting warmer every mile.”

“It warm.  Much warm.  Oh, yes.”

Julyman’s resources of imagination were being sorely taxed.

Steve nodded.

“Yes,” he said.  “It isn’t wind now.  There’s no wind.  It’s the air.  It’s warm.  It’s getting warmer.  Later it’ll get hot as hell.”

He drew a profound breath.  He felt that victory was very near.  It only needed

“We got to beat on all we know,” he said, examining the brilliant heavens.  “We need to grab every moment of this weather.  We don’t know.  We can’t guess the things waiting on us.  Yes.  We’ll ‘mush’ on.”

His tones were deep.  The restraint of years which the Northland had bred into him was giving way before the surge of a hope that was almost certainty.  And his order was obeyed by men who knew no law but his will.

But for all the urgency of his mandate, for all his efforts, progress slackened from the moment the first hill was passed.  From the seemingly limitless plains of snow, rolling maddeningly in a succession of low hills and shallow hollows, now it seemed that Nature spurned the milk and water fashioning of her handiwork, and had hurled the rest of the world into a wreckage of broken, barren hills.

Into the midst of this chaos Steve plunged.

For awhile the confusion robbed him of all certainty.  It not infrequently left decision floundering.  The mountains leapt at him with a rush from every side, confusing direction and reducing even instinct to something like impotence.  With familiarity, however, his trained mind adapted itself.  Then the rush went on with the old irresistible confidence.

But human endurance was sorely tested.  The tasks often became well-nigh insuperable.  There were moments when dogs and Indians lay beaten in the midst of their labours, without will, without energy to stir another yard.  It was at such times that despair knocked at the strong heart of the man who had never learned to yield, and who had never quite known defeat.

But even in the worst moments the steadily warming air never failed to lure.  It breathed its soft message of promise into Steve’s ready ears, supporting a heart powerless to resist the appeal.

The change to warmth, however, had another and less pleasing aspect.  The snow lost its icy case-hardening.  A rot set in.  On the hill-tops the ice was not always reliable.  In the valleys men sank up to their knees in slushy depths.  Even the broad tread of snow-shoes failed to save them.  Then, too, the dogs floundered belly-deep, and the broad bottoms of the sleds alone saved the outfit from complete disaster.  The increasing hardships left Steve without respite.  It was only on the hill-tops, when the veer of the wind carried it to the northward, and, for a brief spell, Arctic conditions returned, that any measure of ease was ironically vouchsafed.

The effort was tremendous.  It went on for days whose number it was difficult to estimate in the grope of the unchanging twilight.  A day’s work might be a single hill conquered.  It might be a moist, clammy valley crossed.  Perhaps two miles, three, or even five.  Distance remained unconsidered.  For always was the next effort no less than the last, till mind, and heart, and body were worn well-nigh threadbare.  There was no pause, no hesitation.  It must be on, on to the end, or disaster.

Steve knew.  Only the barest necessity of rest could be permitted both for himself, his men, his dogs.  The faith of his men still burned strongly in hearts which he had never known to fail, but he dared not risk the chance of a prolonged inactivity with its opportunity for contemplation of the hell through which they were all passing.  He knew.  Oh yes.  He knew from his understanding of his own feelings and emotions.

He lived in the daily hope of discovering something with which to dazzle imagination already dulling.  His faith was pinned to the summit of a great, grey headland towering amongst its fellows ahead.  He had discovered its presence long since, and, from the moment of discovery, he had sought its elusive slopes.  Instinct, that had no great reason to support it, warned him that the view from its summit would tell them the things they desired to know.  And they were the things they all must learn quickly if failure were not to rob them of the fruits of their great adventure.

Yes.  He desired that dull grey summit just now as he desired nothing else in the world.

Every emotion was stirring when, at length, Steve found himself climbing the last of the upward slopes of the “Hill of Promise,” as he had named it.  He had laughed as he coined the name.  But there had been no laughter in his heart.  If the promise were not fulfilled ?

But it would be fulfilled.  It must be fulfilled.  These were the things Steve told himself in that fever of straining which only mental extremity knows.

He topped the last rugged lift to the summit.  His men were somewhere below, floundering in his wake.  He had no heed for them just now.  Hope, a fever of hope alone sustained his weary limbs over the inhospitable ice.

A great shout echoed down the slope.  It came with all the power of a strong man’s lungs.

“Ho, you!  Quick!”

Steve had reached the rugged crest.  A second shout came back to the floundering Indians.

“God!  It’s a wonder!”

The moment was profound.  Eyes that were prepared for well-nigh anything monstrous gazed out spellbound.  Tongues had no words, and hearts were stirred to their depths.  The whole world ahead was afire.  It was a conflagration of incalculable immensity.

The horizon was one blaze of transcendent light.  It was rendered a hundred-fold more amazing by its contrast against the grey of the Arctic night.  At a given point, in the centre of all, a well of fire was belching skywards.  It was churning the overhanging clouds of smoke, and lighting them with the myriad hues that belong to the tumbled glory of a stormy summer sunset.  Then, too, rumblings and dull thunders came up to the watching men like the groanings of a world in travail.

For miles the hill-tops seemed to have been swept clear of ice and snow.  They were shorn of their winter shroud.  They stood up like black, unsightly, broken teeth, against a cavernous background of fire burning in the maw of some Moloch colossus.  They stood out bared to the bone of the world’s foundations.

Julyman shaded his eyes with hands that sought to shut out a vision his savage superstition could no longer support.  Oolak had no such emotion.  He turned from it to something which, to his mind, was of greater interest.  Steve alone remained absorbed in that radiant beyond.

The Arctic night no longer reigned supreme.  It seemed to have been devoured at a gulp.  The heavenly lights had lost all power in face of this earthly glory.  A mist of smoke had switched off the gleam of starlight, and the moon and mock-moons wore the tarnished hue of silver that has lost its burnish.  The ghosts of the aurora no longer trod their measure of stately minuet.  They had passed into the world of shadow to which they rightly belonged.

The heart of Unaga was bared for all to see, that fierce heart which drives the bravest Indian tongue to the hush of dread.

“We not mak’ him that!  Oh, no!”

Julyman’s tone was hushed and fearful.  He moved close to the white man in urgent appeal.

“Boss Steve not mak’ him.  No.  Julyman all come dead.  Julyman not mush on.  Oh, no.”

“Julyman’ll do just as ‘Boss’ Steve says.”

Steve had dragged his gaze from the wonder that held it.  He was coldly regarding the haunted eyes of a man he knew to be fearless enough as men understand fearlessness.

This was no time for sympathy or weakness.  It was his purpose to penetrate to that blazing heart, as nearly as the object of his journey demanded.  He was in no mood to listen patiently to words inspired by benighted superstition.

“Him Unaga!” Julyman protested, his outstretched arm shaking.  “No mak’ him?  Yes?”

“We mak’ this!”

It was Oolak who answered him.  He spoke with a preliminary, contemptuous grunt.  He, too, was pointing.  But he was pointing at that which lay near at hand.  He stood leaning his crippled body on his gee-pole, and gazing down at that which lay immediately in front of them, groaning and grumbling like some suffering living creature.

Steve followed the direction of the outstretched arm.  He had been absorbed in the distance.  All else had been forgotten.  He found himself gazing down upon what appeared to be a cascading sea of phosphorescent light.  He recognized it instantly, and the fiery heart of Unaga was forgotten.

A mighty glacier barred the way, and the peak on which they stood was its highest point.  It stretched out far ahead.  It reached beyond such range of vision as the Arctic night permitted.  It sloped away down, down, so gradually, yet so deeply, so widely that it warned him of the opening of the jaws of a mighty valley, through the heart of which there probably flowed the broad bosom of a very great river.  The play of the phosphorescent light was the reflection of Unaga’s lights caught by the myriad facets of broken ice upon its tumbled surface.

Steve nodded.

“Yes.  We make this,” he cried, in a fashion to forbid all discussion.  Then after a pause that gave his decision due effect:  “There’s a valley away out there.  And I guess it’ll likely hand us the things we got to know.  We’ve beaten those darn hills.  We’ve beaten the snow and ice and the cold.  The things we’re going to find down there need beating, too.”

He turned from the barrier which left him undismayed.  A great light was shining in his eyes as he passed Julyman by.  They rested eagerly, questioningly, upon the unemotional face of Oolak whose keen understanding he knew to be profound.

“Well?” he demanded in the fashion of a man aware that his question is not in vain.

Oolak turned.  He raised his face, and his sensitive nostrils distended with a deep intake of breath.  A moment later he made a swift gesture with the gee-pole on which he had been supporting himself.

“I mak’ him smell.  So!”

He spoke with unusual animation.

Steve had been seeking and waiting for just such words.

“You smell what?” he demanded.

“Oolak smell him all sweet lak’ lak’ ”

Steve interrupted with a nod.

“I know,” he cried.  “Like like ”

But that which he would have said remained unspoken.  There was no need for words.  The rest was in his eyes, in his voice.  Oolak’s corroboration of the evidence of his own senses meant the final triumph he was seeking.