followed his companion's example, and began spreading his blankets. It had
been a hard day, and within five minutes after stretching himself out he
was asleep.

He was still asleep when Bruce rolled out from under his blanket at dawn.
Without rousing Langdon the young packer slipped on his boots and waded
back a quarter of a mile through the heavy dew to round up the horses. When
he returned he brought Dishpan and their saddle-horses with him. By that
time Langdon was up, and starting a fire.

Langdon frequently reminded himself that such mornings as this had made him
disappoint the doctors and rob the grave. Just eight years ago this June he
had come into the North for the first time, thin-chested and with a bad
lung. "You can go if you insist, young man," one of the doctors had told
him, "but you're going to your own funeral." And now he had a five-inch
expansion and was as tough as a knot. The first rose-tints of the sun were
creeping over the mountain-tops; the air was filled with the sweetness of
flowers, and dew, and growing things, and his lungs drew in deep breaths of
oxygen laden with the tonic and perfume of balsam.

He was more demonstrative than his companion in the joyousness of this wild
life. It made him want to shout, and sing, and whistle. He restrained
himself this morning. The thrill of the hunt was in his blood.

While Otto saddled the horses Langdon made the bannock. He had become an
expert at what he called "wild-bread" baking, and his method possessed the
double efficiency of saving both waste and time.

He opened one of the heavy canvas flour sacks, made a hollow in the flour
with his two doubled fists, partly filled this hollow with a pint of water