They traveled as they had never done before, following the dim trail before them with the speed and instinct of wild things. Tireless, elastic, winged with snowshoes, the miles flowed under them.
At eleven o'clock, they came upon the ruins of a camp-fire, which had evidently been scattered that morning, and, encouraged by this, Donald could barely stop to make tea. The afternoon was a race with darkness. Could he have done so, he would have commanded the sullen sun to stand still. Now, with a vicious cut at the faltering dogs, now with a cry of encouragement to Peter Rainy, he ran on, his shirt open at the front, his throat bare.
Hour by hour, the trail grew fresher. Now, they paused at the open glades before crossing them. They listened for the jingle of bells in the distance, and took their own off the harness, an act that nearly ended their day's journey, for the dogs could scarcely be induced to travel without this musical accompaniment. Darkness, at last, began to settle.
Suddenly, the force of inspiration that had held him up so long, deserted the young man, and he wavered where he stood, shading his eyes across an open space.
“What do you see, Peter?” he gasped, sitting down abruptly, for very weakness.
The Indian stood gazing for a long time in silence.
“Far off, I see a shanty and a dog-train in front of it,” he said, slowly. “And, now, I see smoke coming from the chimney.”
“How many people are there?” cried Donald excitedly, getting to his feet again. “Tell me, quick! How many?
“That I cannot see,” answered the Indian, after a moment's piercing scrutiny.
“Mush! Mush on!” cried McTavish, curling the long whip over the dogs' backs, and once more the mad race was under way.