He came upon a valley where rock ptarmigan rose on whirring wings from the ledges and muskegs.

Ker-ker-ker was the cry they made. He threw stones at them, but could not hit them.

He placed his pack on the ground and stalked them as a cat stalks a sparrow.

The sharp rocks cut through his pants' legs till his knees left a trail of blood; but the hurt was lost in the hurt of his hunger.

He squirmed over the wet moss, saturating his clothes and chilling his body; but he was not aware of it, so great was his fever for food.

And always the ptarmigan rose, whirring, before him, till their ker-ker-ker became a mock to him, and he cursed them and cried aloud at them with their own cry.

Once he crawled upon one that must have been asleep. He did not see it till it shot up in his face from its rocky nook.

He made a clutch as startled as was the rise of the ptarmigan, and there remained in his hand three tail-feathers.

As he watched its flight he hated it, as though it had done him some terrible wrong. Then he returned and shouldered his pack.

As the day wore along he came into valleys or swales where game was more plentiful.