Looking back at it, Keith bared his head in the raw dawn.  “God bless you, Conniston,” he whispered, and turned slowly away and into the south.

Ahead of him was eight hundred miles of wilderness—­eight hundred miles between him and the little town on the Saskatchewan where McDowell commanded Division of the Royal Mounted.  The thought of distance did not appall him.  Four years at the top of the earth had accustomed him to the illimitable and had inured him to the lack of things.  That winter Conniston had followed him with the tenacity of a ferret for a thousand miles along the rim of the Arctic, and it had been a miracle that he had not killed the Englishman.  A score of times he might have ended the exciting chase without staining his own hands.  His Eskimo friends would have performed the deed at a word.  But he had let the Englishman live, and Conniston, dead, was sending him back home.  Eight hundred miles was but the step between.

He had no dogs or sledge.  His own team had given up the ghost long ago, and a treacherous Kogmollock from the Roes Welcome had stolen the Englishman’s outfit in the last lap of their race down from Fullerton’s Point.  What he carried was Conniston’s, with the exception of his rifle and his own parka and hood.  He even wore Conniston’s watch.  His pack was light.  The chief articles it contained were a little flour, a three-pound tent, a sleeping-bag, and certain articles of identification to prove the death of John Keith, the outlaw.  Hour after hour of that first day the zip, zip, zip of his snowshoes beat with deadly monotony upon his brain.  He could not think.  Time and again it seemed to him that something was pulling him back, and always he was hearing Conniston’s voice and seeing Conniston’s face in the gray gloom of the day about him.  He passed through the slim finger of scrub timber that a strange freak of nature had flung across the plain, and once more was a moving speck in a wide and wind-swept barren.  In the afternoon he made out a dark rim on the southern horizon and knew it was timber, real timber, the first he had seen since that day, a year and a half ago, when the last of the Mackenzie River forest had faded away behind him!  It gave him, at last, something tangible to grip.  It was a thing beckoning to him, a sentient, living wall beyond which was his other world.  The eight hundred miles meant less to him than the space between himself and that growing, black rim on the horizon.

He reached it as the twilight of the day was dissolving into the deeper dusk of the night, and put up his tent in the shelter of a clump of gnarled and storm-beaten spruce.  Then he gathered wood and built himself a fire.  He did not count the sticks as he had counted them for eighteen months.  He was wasteful, prodigal.  He had traveled forty miles since morning but he felt no exhaustion.  He gathered wood until he had a great pile of it, and the flames of his fire leaped higher and higher until the spruce needles crackled and hissed over his head.  He boiled a pot of weak tea and made a supper of caribou meat and a bit of bannock.  Then he sat with his back to a tree and stared into the flames.