“And what I want to know is where we're going to camp to-night,” Shorty said, staring disconsolately at the sky-line in the southwest, where the mid-afternoon twilight was darkening into night.
“Let's follow the track up the creek,” was Smoke's suggestion. “There's plenty of dead timber. We can camp any time.”
“Sure we can camp any time, but we got to travel most of the time if we ain't goin' to starve, an' we got to travel in the right direction.”
“We're going to find something up that creek,” Smoke went on.
“But look at the grub! Look at them dogs!” Shorty cried. “Look at—oh, hell, all right. You will have your will.”
“It won't make the trip a day longer,” Smoke urged. “Possibly no more than a mile longer.”
“Men has died for as little as a mile,” Shorty retorted, shaking his head with lugubrious resignation. “Come on for trouble. Get up, you poor sore-foots, you—get up! Haw! You Bright! Haw!”
The lead-dog obeyed, and the whole team strained weakly into the soft snow.
“Whoa!” Shorty yelled. “It's pack trail.”
Smoke pulled his snow-shoes from under the sled-lashings, bound them to his moccasined feet, and went to the fore to press and pack the light surface for the dogs.