The warmer weather was spoiling the trail. It became so soft and mushy that though snowshoes were needed, they could not be worn on account of the heavy snow which clung to them every time a foot was lifted. They wore mukluks, but Sheba was wet to the knees. The spring had gone from her step. Her shoulders began to sag.
For some time Gordon's eye had been seeking a good place for a day camp. He found it in a bit of open timber above the trail, and without a word he swung his team from the path.
"Where are you going?" demanded Macdonald.
"Going to rest for an hour," was Elliot's curt answer.
Macdonald's jaw clamped. He strode forward through the snow beside the trail. "We'll see about that."
The younger man faced him angrily. "Can't you see she is done, man? There is not another mile of travel in her until she has rested."
The hard, gray eyes of the Alaskan took in the slender, weary figure leaning against the sled. On a soft and mushy trail like this, where every footstep punched a hole in the loose snow, the dogs could not travel with any extra weight. A few miles farther down they would come to a main-traveled road and the going would be better. But till then she must walk. Macdonald gave way with a gesture of his hand and turned on his heel.
At the camp-fire Sheba dried her mukluks, stockings, caribou mitts, and short skirts. Too tired to eat, she forced herself to swallow a few bites and drank eagerly some tea. Gordon had brought blankets from the sled and he persuaded her to lie down for a few minutes.
"You'll call me soon if I should sleep," she said drowsily, and her eyes were closed almost before the words were off her lips.
When Macdonald came to order the start half an hour later, she was still asleep. "Give her another thirty minutes," he said gruffly.