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Updated: June 15, 2025
Daylight found them in the belt of foothills that lay between the rolling country and the mountains. McCan suggested breakfast, but they held on. Not until the afternoon thaw softened the crust and prevented travel would they eat. The foothills quickly grew rugged, and the stream, up whose frozen bed they journeyed, began to thread deeper and deeper canyons.
"No," she begged. "It is death to uncover now. Bury your face here, against my parka, and breathe gently and do no talking see, the way I am doing." They dozed on through the darkness, though the decreasing fits of coughing of one invariably aroused the other. It was after midnight, Smoke judged, when McCan coughed his last. After that he emitted low and bestial moanings that never ceased.
The Irishman was secretly munching caribou suet from the pocketful he carried. "No eating between meals, McCan," he commanded. "There's no game in the country ahead, and the grub will have to be whacked in equal rations from the start. The only way you can travel with us is by playing fair."
Which was true, for look where they would, half the circle of the sky dazzled and blazed with new suns forming. McCan yelped sharply with surprise and pain. "I'm stung!" he cried out, then yelped again. Then Labiskwee cried out, and Smoke felt a prickling stab on his cheek so cold that it burned like acid.
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