It was heavy work. Dogs and men had been for days on short rations, and few and limited were the reserves of energy they could call upon. Though they followed the creek bed, so pronounced was its fall that they toiled on a stiff and unrelenting up-grade. The high rocky walls quickly drew near together, so that their way led up the bottom of a narrow gorge. The long lingering twilight, blocked by the high mountains, was no more than semi-darkness.
“It's a trap,” Shorty said. “The whole look of it is rotten. It's a hole in the ground. It's the stampin'-ground of trouble.”
Smoke made no reply, and for half an hour they toiled on in silence—a silence that was again broken by Shorty.
“She's a-workin',” he grumbled. “She's sure a-workin', an' I'll tell you if you're minded to hear an' listen.”
“Go on,” Smoke answered.
“Well, she tells me, plain an' simple, that we ain't never goin' to get out of this hole in the ground in days an' days. We're goin' to find trouble an' be stuck in here a long time an' then some.”
“Does she say anything about grub?” Smoke queried unsympathetically. “For we haven't grub for days and days and days and then some.”
“Nope. Nary whisper about grub. I guess we'll manage to make out. But I tell you one thing, Smoke, straight an' flat. I'll eat any dog in the team exceptin' Bright. I got to draw the line on Bright. I just couldn't scoff him.”
“Cheer up,” Smoke girded. “My hunch is working overtime. She tells me there'll be no dogs eaten, and, whether it's moose or caribou or quail on toast, we'll all fatten up.”
Shorty snorted his unutterable disgust, and silence obtained for another quarter of an hour.