Never had Alan traveled as on the last of this sixth day of his absence from the range.  He was comparatively fresh, as his trail to Tatpan’s camp had not been an exhausting one, and his more intimate knowledge of the country gave him a decided advantage over Stampede.  He believed he could make the distance in ten hours, but to this he would be compelled to add a rest of at least three or four hours during the night.  It was now eight o’clock.  By nine or ten the next morning he would be facing Rossland, and at about that same hour Tatpan’s swift messengers would be closing in about Tautuk and Amuk Toolik.  He knew the speed with which his herdsmen would sweep out of the mountains and over the tundras.  Two years ago Amuk Toolik and a dozen of his Eskimo people had traveled fifty-two hours without rest or food, covering a hundred and nineteen miles in that time.  His blood flushed hot with pride.  He couldn’t do that.  But his people could—­and would.  He could see them sweeping in from the telescoping segments of the herds as the word went among them; he could see them streaking out of the foothills; and then, like wolves scattering for freer air and leg-room, he saw them dotting the tundra in their race for home—­and war, if it was war that lay ahead of them.

Twilight began to creep in upon him, like veils of cool, dry mist out of the horizons.  And hour after hour he went on, eating a strip of pemmican when he grew hungry, and drinking in the spring coulees when he came to them, where the water was cold and clear.  Not until a telltale cramp began to bite warningly in his leg did he stop for the rest which he knew he must take.  It was one o’clock.  Counting his journey to Tatpan’s camp, he had been traveling almost steadily for seventeen hours.

Not until he stretched himself out on his back in a grassy hollow where a little stream a foot wide rippled close to his ears did he realize how tired he had become.  At first he tried not to sleep.  Rest was all he wanted; he dared not close his eyes.  But exhaustion overcame him at last, and he slept.  When he awoke, bird-song and the sun were taunting him.  He sat up with a jerk, then leaped to his feet in alarm.  His watch told the story.  He had slept soundly for six hours, instead of resting three or four with his eyes open.

After a little, as he hurried on his way, he did not altogether regret what had happened.  He felt like a fighting man.  He breathed deeply, ate a breakfast of pemmican as he walked, and proceeded to make up lost time.  The interval between fifteen minutes of twelve and twelve he almost ran.  That quarter of an hour brought him to the crest of the ridge from which he could look upon the buildings of the range.  Nothing had happened that he could see.  He gave a great gasp of relief, and in his joy he laughed.  The strangeness of the laugh told him more than anything else the tension he had been under.