It was no great thing in Pete’s sight—­a simple episode of the North.  The man was in dire need, he himself was strong, and his dogs would go through anything with Pete “at the steerin’ gear”—­and so a life was saved.

When the Bernard team was also stabled, Baldy was overcome with that delicious drowsiness that follows a busy day in the open.  From the house came those strange noises that people seem to so much enjoy—­else why do they remain within reach of them instead of running far away, as did Baldy at first?  But he, like the rest of the Allan and Darling family, had eventually become used to the phonograph; and their perfect self-control now enabled them to lie quietly through the “Sextette from Lucia” or the latest rag time at least with composure, if not with pleasure.

Not so, however, Pete’s uncultured brutes; such strains were melancholy and painful to them in the extreme; and they did not hesitate to let it be known.  One by one they began to howl, till all twelve were wailing dolefully and continuously.  The Nugget dogs joined them, and Baldy noticed with stern condemnation that Fisher and Wolf, who had not yet acquired the repose of manner that comes of rigid discipline, were also guilty of this breach of Road House decorum.  Allan and Pete rushed out to quell the disturbance, but the Big Man said not to interfere; that many a dollar he had paid for an evening of Strauss or Debussy when the clamor was just as loud, and to him no more melodious—­and he was for letting them finish their “number” in peace.

At last the music-machine ceased from troubling, the rival canine concert was ended, and laughter and song were hushed.  The stillness of the Arctic night fell upon the Nugget Road House, lying in the somber shadow of the Sawtooth Mountains.  And to Baldy and all the others came rest and forgetfulness of such trials as nerve-racking sounds that destroy well-earned sleep, and the enforced companionship of advanced females that insist upon having a paw in the management of affairs that should not concern them.

The next morning both teams were ready to continue the journey.  The Big Man with Pete Bernard and his huskies were to take the long route through the Lowlands; while “Scotty” decided upon the short cut by the Golden Gate Pass, because the Woman wanted to go the most picturesque way.

It had been cold but clear when they left Nugget, and was still fair, though somewhat colder, when they stopped for lunch at Slisco’s; but later, as they went up through the steep divide, the chill wind became almost unbearable.

The trail had grown exceedingly rough, and for many miles there were, at close intervals, a succession of jagged windrows rising like the crests of huge waves frozen as they curled to break.  Once when the sled hit a crag, in spite of every effort to steer clear of it, “Scotty” heard an ominous crack.  He was obliged to stop, and with Ben’s aid wound the broken place with a stout cord.  Then they tied the Woman in with ropes, for there was constant fear that she might be hurled out when the sled swerved unavoidably.