Into Northern Lights the pursuers drove after a four-day traverse.  Manders, of the Mounted, welcomed them with the best he had.  No news had come to him from the outside for more than two months, and after his visitors were fed and warmed, they lounged in front of a roaring log fire while he flung questions at them of what the world and its neighbor were doing.

Manders was a dark-bearded man, big for the North-West Police.  He had two hobbies.  One was trouble in the Balkans, which he was always prophesying.  The other was a passion for Sophocles, which he read in the original from a pocket edition.  Start him on the chariot race in “Elektra” and he would spout it while he paced the cabin and gestured with flashing eyes.  For he was a Rugby and an Oxford man, though born with the wanderlust in his heart.  Some day he would fall heir to a great estate in England, an old baronetcy which carried with it manors and deer parks and shaven lawns that had taken a hundred years to grow.  Meanwhile he lived on pemmican and sour bannocks.  Sometimes he grumbled, but his grumbling was a fraud.  He was here of choice, because he was a wild ass of the desert and his ears heard only the call of adventure.  Of such was the North-West Mounted.

Presently, when the stream of his curiosity as to the outside began to dry, Beresford put a few questions of his own.  Manders could give him no information.  He was in touch with the trappers for a radius of a hundred miles of which Northern Lights was the center, but no word had come to him of a lone traveler with a dog-train passing north.

“Probably striking west of here,” the big black Englishman suggested.

Beresford’s face twisted to a wry, humorous grimace.  East, west, or north, they would have to find the fellow and bring him back.

The man-hunters spent a day at Northern Lights to rest the dogs and restock their supplies.  They overhauled their dunnage carefully, mended the broken moose-skin harness, and looked after one of the animals that had gone a little lame from a sore pad.  From a French half-breed they bought additional equipment much needed for the trail.  He was a gay, good-looking youth in new fringed leather hunting-shirt, blue Saskatchewan cap trimmed with ribbons, and cross belt of scarlet cloth.  His stock in trade was dog-shoes, made of caribou-skin by his wife, and while in process of tanning soaked in some kind of liquid that would prevent the canines from eating them off their feet.

The temperature was thirty-five below zero when they left the post and there were sun dogs in the sky.  Manders had suggested that they had better wait a day or two, but the man-hunters were anxious to be on the trail.  They had a dangerous, unpleasant job on hand.  Both of them wanted it over with as soon as possible.

They headed into the wilds.  The road they made was a crooked path through the white, unbroken forest.  They saw many traces of fur-bearing animals, but did not stop to do any hunting.  The intense cold and the appearance of the sky were whips to drive them fast.  In the next two or three days they passed fifteen or twenty lakes.  Over these they traveled rapidly, but in the portages and the woods they had to pack the snow, sometimes cut out obstructing brush, and again help the dogs over rough or heavy places.

The blizzard caught them the third day.  They fought their way through the gathering storm across a rather large lake to the timber’s edge.  Here they cleared away a space about nine feet square and cut evergreen boughs from the trees to cover it.  At one side of this, Morse built the fire while Beresford unharnessed the dogs and thawed out a mess of frozen fish for them.  Presently the kettles were bubbling on the fire.  The men ate supper and drew the sled up as a barricade against the wind.

The cold had moderated somewhat and it had come on to snow.  All night a sleety, wind-driven drizzle beat upon them.  They rose from an uncomfortable night to a gloomy day.

They consulted about what was best to do.  Their camp was in a poor place, among a few water-logged trees that made a poor, smoky fire.  It had little shelter from the storm, and there was no evidence of fair weather at hand.

“Better tackle the next traverse,” Morse advised.  “Once we get across the lake we can’t be worse off than we are here.”

“Righto!” assented Beresford.

They packed their supplies, harnessed the dogs, and were off.  Into the storm they drove, head down, buffeted by a screaming wind laden with stinging sleet that swept howling across the lake.  All about them they heard the sharp reports of cracking ice.  At any moment a fissure might open, and its width might be an inch or several yards.  In the blinding gale they could see nothing.  Literally, they had to feel their way.

Morse went ahead to test the ice, Cuffy following close at his heels.  The water rushes up after a fissure and soon freezes over.  The danger is that one may come to it too soon.

This was what happened.  Morse, on his snowshoes, crossed the thinly frozen ice safely.  Cuffy, a step or two behind the trail-breaker, plunged through into the water.  The prompt energy of Beresford saved the other dogs.  He stopped them instantly and threw his whole weight back to hold the sled.  The St. Bernard floundered in the water for a few moments and tried to reach Morse.  The harness held Cuffy back.  Beresford ran to the edge of the break and called him.  A second or two later he was helping to drag the dog back upon the firm ice.

In the bitter cold the matted coat of the St. Bernard, froze stiff.  Cuffy knew his danger.  The instant the sled, was across the crack, he plunged at the load and went forward with such speed that he seemed almost to drag the other dogs with him.

Fortunately the shore was near, not more than three or four miles away.  Within half an hour land was reached.  A forest came down to the edge of the lake.  From the nearer trees Morse sliced birch bark.  An abundance of fairly dry wood was at hand.  Before a roaring fire Cuffy lay on a buffalo robe and steamed.  Within an hour he was snuggling a contented nose up to Beresford’s caressing hand.

Fagged out, the travelers went to bed early.  Long before daybreak they were up.  The blizzard had died down during the night.  It left behind a crusted trail over which the dogs moved fast.  The thermometer had again dropped sharply and the weather was bitter cold.  Before the lights of an Indian village winked at them through the trees, they had covered nearly forty miles.  In the wintry afternoon darkness they drove up.

The native dogs were barking a welcome long before they came jingling into the midst of the tepees.  Bucks, squaws, and papooses tumbled out to see them with guttural exclamations of greeting.  Some of the youngsters and one or two of the maidens had never before seen a white man.

A fast and furious melee interrupted conversation.  The wolfish dogs of the village were trying out the mettle of the four strangers.  The snarling and yelping drowned all other sounds until the gaunt horde of sharp-muzzled; stiff-haired brutes had been beaten back by savage blows from the whip and by quick thrusts of a rifle butt.

The head man of the group invited the two whites into the largest hut.  Morse and Beresford sat down before a smoky fire and carried on a difficult dialogue.  They divided half a yard of tobacco among the men present and gave each of the women a small handful of various-colored beads.

They ate sparingly of a stew made of fish, the gift of their hosts.  In turn the officers had added to the menu a large piece of fat moose which was devoured with voracity.

The Indians, questioned, had heard a story of a white man traveling alone through the Lone Lands with a dog-train.  He was a giant of a fellow and surly, the word had gone out.  Who he was or where he was going they did not know, but he seemed to be making for the great river in the north.  That was the sum and substance of what Beresford learned from them about West by persistent inquiry.

After supper, since it was so bitterly cold outside, the man-hunters slept in the tepee of the chief.  Thirteen Indians too slept there.  Two of them were the head man’s wives, six were his children, one was a grandchild.  Who the rest of the party were or what relation they bore to him, the guests did not learn.

The place was filthy and the air was vile.  Before morning both the young whites regretted they had not taken chances outside.

“Not ever again,” Beresford said with frank disgust after they had set out next day.  “I’ll starve if I have to.  I’ll freeze if I must.  But, by Jove!  I’ll not eat Injun stew or sleep in a pot-pourri of nitchies.  Not good enough.”

Tom grinned.  “While I was eatin’ the stew, I thought I could stand sleepin’ there even if I gagged at the eats, and while I was tryin’ to sleep, I made up my mind if I had to choose one it would be the stew.  Next time we’re wrastlin’ with a blizzard, we’ll know enough to be thankful for our mercies.  We’ll be able to figure it might be a lot worse.”

That afternoon they killed a caribou and got much-needed fresh meat for themselves and the dogs.  Unfortunately, while carrying the hind-quarters to the sled, Beresford slipped and strained a tendon in the left leg.  He did not notice it much at the time, but after an hour’s travel the pain increased.  He found it difficult to keep pace with the dogs.

They were traversing a ten-mile lake.  Morse proposed that they camp as soon as they reached the edge of it.

“Better get on the sled and ride till then,” he added.

Beresford shook his head.  “No, I’ll carry on all right.  Got to grin and bear it.  The sled’s overloaded anyhow.  You trot along and I’ll tag.  Time you’ve got the fires built and all the work done, I’ll loaf into camp.”

Tom made no further protest.  “All right.  Take it easy.  I’ll unload and run back for you.”

The Montanan found a good camp-site, dumped the supplies, and left Cuffy as a guard.  With the other dogs he drove back and met the officer.  Beresford was still limping doggedly forward.  Every step sent a shoot of pain through him, but he set his teeth and kept moving.

None the less he was glad to see the empty sled.  He tumbled on and let the others do the work.

At camp he scraped the snow away with a shoe while Morse cut spruce boughs and chopped wood for the fire.

Beresford suffered a good deal from his knee that night.  He did not sleep much, and when day came it was plain he could not travel.  The camp-site was a good one.  There was plenty of wood, and the shape of the draw in which they were located was a protection from the cold wind.  The dogs would be no worse for a day or two of rest.  The travelers decided to remain here as long as might be necessary.

Tom went hunting.  He brought back a bag of four ptarmigan late in the afternoon.  Fried, they were delicious.  The dogs stood round in a half-circle and caught the bones tossed to them.  Crunch - crunch - crunch.  The bones no longer were.  The dogs, heads cocked on one side, waited expectantly for more tender tidbits.

“Saw deer tracks.  To-morrow I’ll have a try for one,” Morse said.

The lame man hobbled down to the lake next day, broke the ice, and fished for jack pike.  He took back to camp with him all he could carry.

On the fourth day his knee was so much improved that he was able to travel slowly.  They were glad to see that night the lights of Fort Desolation, as one of the Mounted had dubbed the post on account of its loneliness.