“Mr. Coombs,” said Phil, “you sound pretty well thawed out, and if that is the case we’ll get under way again.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” responded the mate, thrashing his long arms vigorously across his chest to restore circulation, and then slipping resignedly into his fur bag. “Anchor’s apeak, sir.” And away sped the sledges up the broad level of the Tanana.
Every member of the party had by this time become so thoroughly broken in to his duties that when they made camp that night the promptness with which it was prepared, as well as the ensuing comfort, was a revelation to Jalap Coombs, who declared that there had been nothing like it in the camps of the other party.
“Of course not,” said Phil, “for they haven’t got Serge Belcofsky along, so how could their comfort equal ours?”
At this Serge, covered with confusion, replied, “Nonsense, Phil! You know it is because we have got such capital campmen as Kurilla and Chitsah with us.”
At this the face of the elder Indian beamed with pleasure. He did not exactly understand the conversation; but believing that he ought to make some reply, he pointed to Jalap Coombs, and, looking at Phil, remarked:
“You fadder. Yaas.”
But the journey up the Tanana was by no means an unbroken record of swift movings from one comfortable camp to another, or of jokes and pleasantries. The days were now at their shortest, so that each could boast only about four hours of sunlight, and even that was frequently obscured by fierce storms, when the howling winds cut like knives, and it required every ounce of Phil Ryder’s pluck as well as Serge Belcofsky’s dogged determination to keep the little party in motion. The feet of the poor dogs were often so pierced by ice slivers that their tracks were marked with blood. The older and more experienced would bite at these and pull them out. Others would howl with pain, while some would lie down and refuse to work until they were put in boots, which were little bags of deer-hide drawn over their feet and fastened with buckskin thongs.
It was a journey of constant and painful struggle and of dreary monotony, each day being only the same endless succession of ice-bound river, snow-covered hills, and sombre forest. Especially depressing was the night of the 24th of December, when, with an icy wind moaning through the tree-tops of the subarctic forest, and the shivering dogs edging towards the fire for a share of its grateful warmth, Phil and Serge and Jalap Coombs reminded each other that this was Christmas Eve. Never before had Phil spent one away from home, nor had the others ever been so utterly removed from the cheering influences of the joyous season. So Phil described what he knew was taking place in far-distant New London at that very hour, and Serge told of merry times in quaint old Sitka, while Jalap Coombs recalled many a noble plum-duff that had graced Christmas feasts far out at sea, until they all grew homesick, and finally crawled into their sleeping-bags to dream of scenes as remote from those surrounding them as could well be imagined.
As they always selected a camping-place and prepared for the long night by the last of the scanty daylight or in the middle of the afternoon, so they always resumed their journey by the moonlight or starlight, or even in the darkness of two or three o’clock the next morning. On Christmas morning they started, as usual, many hours before daylight, and, either owing to the vagueness of all outlines, or because his thoughts were far away, the young leader mistook a branch for the main river, and headed for a portion of the mighty wilderness that no white man had ever yet explored.