The next morning dawned bright and clear. They were up and about early, and Tom caught a good meal of fish for the dogs through the hole in the ice. When he returned to the camp he carried with him the old rusty trap that had caused Jack’s injury.
“Thought you might like this bit of jewelry for a souvenir,” he said dryly.
“So far as I am concerned you can throw it into the next county,” was the rejoinder.
No time was lost in despatching breakfast and getting an early start. The way to La Roche’s cabin was what is known as a “bad trail.” In fact, it would be necessary to break a path for a great part of the way. Jack was made as snug as possible on the top of the sled, and when old Joe’s whip cracked, he declared that he felt as luxurious as if he were riding in his own automobile.
Not long after leaving the night camp the party found themselves beginning to climb a steep and stony trail. It lay on the weather side of a small range of hills remarkable for their ruggedness, and in places where the wind had swept the snow clear, jagged masses of rock peeped blackly out of the prevailing whiteness.
It was rough traveling, with a vengeance. From time to time they had to stop and rest the dogs. By noon they had hardly made five miles and, according to old Joe, the worst still lay before them. However, bad as the trail was, it was preferable to taking Jack all the way back to Yukon Rover camp. That, in fact, would have been impossible, for the extra weight on the sled was already telling on the mamelukes. They went forward with drooping tails and sagging flanks.
But over that cruel road they showed how well old Joe’s faith in them was justified. Fagged as they were, they did not falter, and when they slacked pace a little the crack of old Joe’s whip in the frosty air never failed to send them forward once more at their ordinary pace.
Tom began to have an immense respect for the mameluke. He understood how it was that men paid large sums for such capable beasts. Savage, intractable, and, as a rule, responding to none but the harshest treatment, the mameluke dog is faithful unto death in only too many instances. A halt was made at midday to eat a hasty snack and to feed and rest the dogs. Then the journey was resumed once more.
It was not so cold as it had been, and in places the snow had softened, affording only a treacherous foothold for the animals. Now and then, too, the boys observed old Joe glancing upward at the precipitous walls that began to tower above the trail.
At length his observations grew so frequent that Tom had to ask him what it was that interested him so on the precipitous heights that overhung their path.