At last they were off again, five hours behind the others; but when they did leave, the North knew that the sport was on in earnest—­for Allan’s policy had ever been to do his real driving on the “home stretch.”

Soon the languor from the rest, and the heaviness from the food were forgotten; and there existed but one dominating, resistless impulse in dog and man—­the impulse to win.

Even the least responsive dog must then have felt the thrill of the famous race, for never a whip—­hardly a word—­was necessary to spur them on.

Frequently the trails were sodden, and often obliterated; soft snow piling up like drifts of feathers into fleecy barriers through which the dogs, with the aid and encouragement of their Master, fought their way, inch by inch.  Beyond them lay Death Valley, a dread waste where the dead silence is broken only by the wailing and shrieking of the wind as it sweeps down in sudden fury from the sentinel peaks that guard it.  Across this Baldy led unswervingly, never hesitating, and hardly relaxing his steady pace, though the sudden gusts from the mountainside often curved the team into a half circle; and he was forced to keep his nose well into the air and brace himself firmly to keep from being carried off his feet.

Further on came the Glacier Grade, on either side of which rose overhanging cliffs.  Here the bitter wind of Death Valley became a veritable hurricane.  Time and again the dogs tried to climb the icy slopes and time and again they were hurled back by the fearful buffeting of the elements.

“Scotty” finally halted them, and with the greatest difficulty succeeded in fastening spiked “creepers” to his mukluks.  Then he tied Baldy to the back of his belt by a strong leash.  “Baldy, it’s up to us now to get this team through safely—­and quickly—­” and bowing his head to the storm he toiled step by step, slipping and sliding, up the perilous heights, ten miles to the summit of the range, with the dogs following and aiding where they could.

Then came the descent, fraught with more danger still; for the gale bore down upon them so relentlessly that all resistance was useless, and the dogs lay flat and were swept along with the sled; while “Scotty” stood clinging to the brake, and dragging one spiked foot behind in the desperate attempt to act as a human anchor.

And at the bottom, quite without warning, they found themselves breaking through the snow into an overflow of a stream, where the water had just come through cracks in the ice to the surface.  As they landed on it with great force it sprayed over them like a fountain; and almost instantly was frozen by the chill of the air.

Allan unhooked them.  “Now, boys, roll and get rid of that ice you’ve been making.  You’re racing dogs, not ice plants.”  They pawed the ice from their eyes, and thawed it out from between their toes with their warm tongues.  And “Scotty,” too, was obliged to remove the ice from his lashes before he could be sure of his bearings.