Bettles pointed to a robe of Arctic hare skins, the
end of which showed in the mouth of a bag.
“That’s his bed,” he said.
“Six pounds of rabbit skins. Warmest
thing he ever slept under, but I’m damned if
it could keep me warm, and I can go some myself.
Daylight’s a hell-fire furnace, that’s
what he is.”
“I’d hate to be that Indian,” Doc
Watson remarked.
“He’ll kill’m, he’ll kill’m
sure,” Bettles chanted exultantly. “I
know. I’ve ben with Daylight on trail.
That man ain’t never ben tired in his life.
Don’t know what it means. I seen him
travel all day with wet socks at forty-five below.
There ain’t another man living can do that.”
While this talk went on, Daylight was saying good-by
to those that clustered around him. The Virgin
wanted to kiss him, and, fuddled slightly though he
was with the whiskey, he saw his way out without compromising
with the apron-string. He kissed the Virgin,
but he kissed the other three women with equal partiality.
He pulled on his long mittens, roused the dogs to
their feet, and took his Place at the gee-pole.[4]
[4] A gee-pole: stout pole projecting forward
from one side of the front end of the sled, by which
the sled is steered.
“Mush, you beauties!” he cried.
The animals threw their weights against their breastbands
on the instant, crouching low to the snow, and digging
in their claws. They whined eagerly, and before
the sled had gone half a dozen lengths both Daylight
and Kama (in the rear) were running to keep up.
And so, running, man and dogs dipped over the bank
and down to the frozen bed of the Yukon, and in the
gray light were gone.
On the river, where was a packed trail and where snowshoes
were unnecessary, the dogs averaged six miles an hour.
To keep up with them, the two men were compelled
to run. Daylight and Kama relieved each other
regularly at the gee-pole, for here was the hard work
of steering the flying sled and of keeping in advance
of it. The man relieved dropped behind the sled,
occasionally leaping upon it and resting.
It was severe work, but of the sort that was exhilarating.
They were flying, getting over the ground, making
the most of the packed trail. Later on they
would come to the unbroken trail, where three miles
an hour would constitute good going. Then there
would be no riding and resting, and no running.
Then the gee-pole would be the easier task, and a
man would come back to it to rest after having completed
his spell to the fore, breaking trail with the snowshoes
for the dogs. Such work was far from exhilarating
also, they must expect places where for miles at a
time they must toil over chaotic ice-jams, where they
would be fortunate if they made two miles an hour.
And there would be the inevitable bad jams, short
ones, it was true, but so bad that a mile an hour
