“Go! Go! Follow the river.... Good—good-bye!”
A choking response came back. The whip cracked and the dogs moved forward. In a few minutes she was a black blur against the scintillating snow. With a groan he turned about and went inside.
For him it was a night of unparalleled agony. Hour after hour saw him there, at the small window, gazing fixedly up the valley, until a slight increase in the light brought him to full consciousness, to realize that a new day was born.
He prepared a meal and, despite his lack of appetite, managed to consume it. Then he took the ax and the rip-saw and made for a bunch of trees higher up the hill. All day the noise of chopping and sawing broke the silence. By the 207 evening, after a day of feverish and unremitting toil, he had fashioned a satisfactory sled.
Sleep came to him then—the deep dreamless sleep of exhaustion. But he awakened early, and began to pack the sled with sufficient food for the long journey. The six fierce brutes that remained were fed and harnessed, and he again ran over the details of his load to assure himself that nothing was missing. At the last moment he remembered the washing-pan and shovel, and placed them with the other miscellaneous articles.
He had no dog-whip, but calculated he could mush the dogs without that. He gave one glance at the shack, emitted a fierce torrent of oaths, and pushed the sled into action.
They went down the incline at a terrific rate and bumped on to the river. Yonder lay Dawson and D’Arcy. Whatever happened, he meant to get D’Arcy, if it meant taking the Pole en route. Out of this anticipation he derived some grain of pleasure—and he needed it to leaven the misery in his soul. His hand moved to the revolver in the pocket of the big bearskin coat, only to be withdrawn before he touched it.
“Nope—not that way,” he muttered grimly, “but with my two hands.”