Curlie had barely time to leap, stomach-down, upon the sled and to grasp the rawhide rope with both hands. He was determined not to be left behind.
Scarcely realizing that his most priceless possession, his rifle, was not on the sled, he still clung there while he was whirled along at a terrific gait.
Rocking like a rowboat in a storm the sled took the ridges of snow as a boat would the waves.
Expecting at every moment to see the sled go over and to be forced to loose his hold, Curlie lay prepared for any emergency.
But the short, broad, low-runnered sled, built for just such an emergency as this, did not turn turtle. So, across one ridge and down it they raced, along the side of a low, receding slope, then across a valley they sped. Skirting a willow clump, they crossed a narrow stream to climb a hill again.
“Ought to let him rip and go back after my rifle,” the boy told himself, but, tired as he was, hungry and sleepy too, he was still game. This beast had challenged his power of wits and endurance; he would stick to the end.
“Wonder how in time you go about it to stop ’em?”
He tried shouting, but this only served to frighten the deer into greater speed, so again he was silent.
They shot down a hill. There was danger that the sled would overtake the deer and that they would be tumbled into a heap. To prevent this he began using his foot as a brake. It worked; that gave him an idea. “Have to tire him out,” he told himself. “Keep the brake on all the time. That’ll help.”
Digging his heel in as hard as he could, he created a great deal of friction which in time began to tell upon the reindeer. He traveled with his mouth open, and his breath began to come in hoarse pants.