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At Selkirk, the old team of dogs, fresh and in condition, were harnessed, and the same day saw Daylight plodding on, alternating places at the gee-pole, as a matter of course, with the Le Barge Indian who had volunteered on the way out. Daylight was two days behind his schedule, and falling snow and unpacked trail kept him two days behind all the way to Forty Mile. And here the weather favored.
He plodded on silently for ten minutes, and then, as though there had been no lapse in his speech, he added: "And no ground covered, and it's too cold to travel." Suddenly he yelled "Whoa!" at the dogs, and stopped. He seemed in a wild panic over his right hand, and proceeded to hammer it furiously against the gee-pole.
Sometimes he tripped on the rope, or stumbled, and at all times he was awkward, betraying a weariness so great that the sled now and again ran upon his heels. When he came to a straight piece of trail, where the sled could get along for a moment without guidance, he let go the gee-pole and batted his right hand sharply upon the hard wood.
Bènard bent to his task and made a rattling pace, travelling in a bee-line for their quarry, since the lake's surface offered absolutely no obstructions. Stane at the gee-pole wondered how long he could keep it up, and from time to time glanced at the sled ahead, which, seen from the same level, now was half-hidden in a mist of snow.
Every half-hour he and Smoke exchanged places, for the snow-shoe work was even more arduous than that of the gee-pole. The whole outfit was fresh and strong. It was merely hard work being efficiently done the breaking of a midwinter trail across a divide. On this severe stretch, ten miles a day they called a decent stint.
Billy, the leader of the four dogs, casting an intelligent eye at his masters, knew that all was ready, and so arose from his haunches. Dick twisted his feet skilfully into the loops of his snow-shoes. Sam, already equipped, seized the heavy dog-whip. The girl took charge of the gee-pole with which the sledge would be guided. "Mush! Mush on!" shouted Sam. The four dogs leaned into their collars.
He raised his face, and his sensitive nostrils distended with a deep intake of breath. A moment later he made a swift gesture with the gee-pole on which he had been supporting himself. "I mak' him smell. So!" He spoke with unusual animation. Steve had been seeking and waiting for just such words. "You smell what?" he demanded. "Oolak smell him all sweet lak' lak' " Steve interrupted with a nod.
He took Daylight's pace with joy, and even dreamed, at first, that he would play the white man out. The first hundred miles he looked for signs of weakening, and marveled that he saw them not. Throughout the second hundred miles he observed signs in himself, and gritted his teeth and kept up. And ever Daylight flew on and on, running at the gee-pole or resting his spell on top the flying sled.
Later on they would come to the unbroken trail, where three miles an hour would constitute good going. Then there would be no riding and resting, and no running. Then the gee-pole would be the easier task, and a man would come back to it to rest after having completed his spell to the fore, breaking trail with the snowshoes for the dogs.
They came in with a rush, and with them rushed in the frost, a visible vapor of smoking white, through which their heads and backs showed, as they strained in the harness, till they had all the seeming of swimming in a river. Behind them, at the gee-pole, came Daylight, hidden to the knees by the swirling frost through which he appeared to wade.
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