“Must be about sundown,” Hardy muttered. “Better call a halt.”
Suddenly there was a startled yelp from the lead dog, followed by a hoarse chorus of howls.
Desperately Hardy strained his blind eyes. A sharp report, an ominous volley of cracks, the sound of a swift current flowing under the ice told the story. Amid a terrified din from the struggling dogs, Hardy sprang from the sled. The cracks were spreading, widening into a sunburst. Hardy felt the water under his boots.
Swiftly he sprang back. “Oh, God, for a second of sight!” he breathed. Slowly, cautiously he backed. The ice became firm under his boots. He paused, listening to the frenzied struggles and wild howling of the team, until one by one their voices were stilled.
He heard the suction as the sled was drawn into the water.
It is not an uncommon thing in northern waters, that strange, warm undercurrent on which a thin layer of ice forms. Ice deceptive in appearance, but when surmounted by a weight it gives suddenly and treacherously.
Hardy continued to walk backward, realizing if he turned he would be at a loss to know in which direction he walked.
“Looks bad,” he muttered. “Blankets and supplies gone down with the sled. I’ll have to keep moving to keep up the circulation.”
Wearily he walked during that long night. By morning his muscles stiffened to the consistency of raw cowhide. Weakened from his illness, his vitality lessened swiftly.
Toward morning he stumbled over a low-growing snow-capped bush. Unconsciously he had half circled across the river and reached its wooded shore.