I went up the slope as rapidly as possible but there was no hurry in me, my heart was pounding till the crest of the slope above me danced like the Northern Lights, and mouth and nostrils together could not feed air to me half fast enough. The two Eskimos who had the dogs were just ahead of me, Ahngmalokto beside me, and the other four lying on the ice-foot getting their breath. Mounting the crest I saw the musk-oxen in the usual stellar group of shaggy forms, white horns and gleaming eyes; the body of the bitch lying a short distance away, and the gray dog worrying the bull and dodging his vicious charges. Poor beggar, his weak legs bent beneath him, he stumbled repeatedly in trying to avoid the charges of the bull, and the heaving of his gaunt sides was painful to see, but the blood lust shone in his eyes, the wolf heart of his fathers kept him to his work, and every time the bull swung back to the herd, he returned to the attack. “Hold them for a moment or two longer, brave gray, till I get my breath, then both of us will eat our fill.” [Illustration: A SAMPLE OF THE ARCTIC PACK ] [Illustration: AS THEY ROUNDED UP ] [Illustration: AFTER THE KILLING ] THE HERD OF MUSK-OXEN, NARES LAND I kicked off my snowshoes and sat down upon them for a moment to pull myself together. In that moment there passed before me all the weary days since we went on scant rations; the grim daily grind; the dismal waiting at the Styx for a chance to regain the world; the heart-breaking work through the shattered ice; the infernal groaning and crashing of the floes; the ever-present nightmare of more open water; the incessant gnawing under the belt; the bruised and aching feet; the burning eyes and face; the growing weakness; the tantalising mouthfuls of hare since we reached the land, and always this hope and picture before me, waking or sleeping—a herd of musk-oxen that should once more permit us to eat our fill. Here it was, now to business. I dropped my mittens, threw a cartridge into the barrel of my carbine, and advanced toward the herd. Faithful Ahngmalokto cried out—“Don’t go so near, Peary,” but this puny herd of musk-oxen was a trifle compared with the lead whose black embrace we had all faced, and I stepped between the gray dog and the bull. Crack! a tiny tuft of hair flew out from just back of the bull’s fore shoulder and he had something beside the gray dog to think of, though he did not go down. My bullet had missed his heart and gone through his lungs. Crack! the other bull made a jump forward, stopped, staggered a step or two backward, then lurched over on his side. My aim was better. Crack! Crack! the two old cows followed suit. Crack! the younger cow went the same way. The two yearlings were standing side by side close together, rigid with fright. Two or three steps to one side brought their fore shoulders in line; crack! the one bullet went through both their hearts and “pinged” on a rock beyond, as one fell on the