"I'll let you know when I want to ride," Jack assured them.
The Indian had set a slow pace, knowing that Jack would not be able to maintain a fast one for any length of time, and it was nearly ten o'clock when they reached the scene of the accident and retrieved the meat which Bob had cached there.
Lucky had estimated that they had made about twenty-five miles when they stopped for the night shortly after five o'clock. It had been dark for several hours, but not dark enough to prevent them from traveling. Jack had rode a good part of the way although he had protested strongly every time Lucky or Bob had proposed it, and his ankle was in fairly good shape although he confessed that "it didn't feel as good as new."
"But another night's rest will fix it all right," he assured them.
All day their way had led through the defile between the two ranges of mountains and, for the most part, they had been ascending although at no time had the way been at all steep. They were off to an early start the next morning resolved to make a long day of it, provided Jack's ankle permitted, and when the sun showed itself over the top of the mountain, Lucky declared they had covered not less than fifteen miles. Jack had walked nearly all the time, resorting to the sled only a couple of times and then only for short distances.
Shortly after noon they emerged from the defile and found, stretching out before them and sloping gently downward, an unbroken waste of snow reaching as far as they could see.
"Great Scott!" Bob burst out. "How are we ever going to keep a straight course across all that?"
"We ought to have a compass," Jack added.
"Mebby heem not so far heem look," Lucky told them. "Eet ver' what you call hazy. Mebby not ver' far 'cross."
"Here's hoping," Bob told him.