On the second day from Klassan the weather changed. The air became milder, and a dull grey sky lowered overhead. In the afternoon the wind began to blow, and ere long man and dogs were flecked with particles of driving snow. The mountain tops were hidden from view, and the storm rolled along their sides like the smoke of a thousand cannon. It burst from the funnel-like pass to their left, swept across the valley, and struck the travellers full abeam.
Hector, the wheel dog, howled and nipped Don's heels, whose teeth gleamed white at the insult. But Yukon uttered never a sound. He gave one lightning glance at his master, straightened himself out in the harness, and nosed his way through the storm. For an hour they thus proceeded, the trail becoming more difficult all the time. At length it was entirely obliterated, and nothing remained to guide them in their onward march. The wind raved and tore round them; the snow curled and encircled their bodies like a huge winding sheet, half blinding them as they staggered on. No friendly forest was near to give them shelter. The region through which they were passing was a vast, desolate tract of burnt land. The dead trees, stripped of every vestige of foliage, stood out gaunt and weird. The wind rushed howling through their naked branches, and the driving snow seemed like the packed lances of a million unseen horsemen in a mad charge.
At length the dogs stopped and, squatting in the snow, looked beseechingly into their master's face. The small sled dragged heavily, even with its light load of blankets and provisions.
"Come, Yukon, old boy, cheer up," encouraged Keith, going to the leader's side, and patting him affectionately on the head. "I'll give you a hand. We must get out of this."
Again they pushed forward, the man assisting the dogs by means of a small rope attached to the sled. But night—an awful night—now closed down, adding its horror to the situation. A sense of helplessness shot into Keith's heart, and stayed his steps. He dropped the rope, tore away the harness from the crouching brutes, and turned them loose. Seizing the sled, he stood it on end in the snow, and taking with him only his small medicine case, began once more his hard fight. But he found it much harder now. His feet left the trail, and he sank deep into the snow. Back he scrambled, and groped onward like a blind man, searching with his feet for the hard bottom. Again and again he missed the track until at last he stopped in despair. What was he to do? Was he to perish miserably there in that blinding storm? The wind was piercing, chilling him to the bone, and he shivered.
Presently Yukon, who had been following close at his master's heels, pricked up his ears, sniffed the air, and, bounding forward, took the lead. This action aroused Keith. He believed a human habitation was near, and that the dog had scented the smoke afar off. Neither was he mistaken, for soon they reached green timber, which broke somewhat the violence of the storm.
Pushing their way through the trees for several hundred yards, a faint glimmer of light pierced the darkness straight ahead.
"Thank God!" murmured Keith, as he waded wearily up to the small log building, and rapped on the rude door. "This must be the place; the first on the trail, so I was told."
A noise of some one moving within fell upon his ear, followed by a fumbling sound as of a bar being removed. Then the door was cautiously opened, and a big grizzly head was thrust out. Keith started back at the wild appearance, and the terrible look in the man's eyes. He had seen such eyes before in mad-houses.
"Does Jim Blasco live here?" he stammered.