“These dog bad froze,” said Pierre, swearing earnestly as he harnessed.  “I don’ like eet much.  They goin’ play hout I’m ’fraid.”  He knelt and chewed from between their toes the ice pellets that had accumulated.  A malamoot is hard pressed to let his feet mass, and this added to the men’s uneasiness.

As they mounted the great divide, mountains rolled away on every hand, barren, desolate, marble-white; always the whiteness; always the listening silence that oppressed like a weight.  Myriads of creek valleys radiated below in a bewildering maze of twisting seams.

“Those are the Ass’s Ears, I suppose,” said Willard, gazing at two great fangs that bit deep into the sky-line.  “Is it true that no man has ever reached them?”

“Yes.  The hinjun say that’s w’ere hall the storm come from, biccause w’en the win’ blow troo the Ass’s Ear, look out!  Somebody goin’ ketch ’ell.”

Dogs’ feet wear quickly after freezing, for crusted snow cuts like a knife.  Spots of blood showed in their tracks, growing more plentiful till every print was a crimson stain.  They limped pitifully on their raw pads, and occasionally one whined.  At every stop they sank in track, licking their lacerated paws, rising only at the cost of much whipping.

On the second night, faint and starved, they reached the hut.  Digging away the drifts, they crawled inside to find it half full of snow—­snow which had sifted through the crevices.  Pierre groped among the shadows and swore excitedly.

“What’s up?” said Willard.

Vocal effort of the simplest is exhausting when spent with hunger, and these were the first words he had spoken for hours.

“By Gar! she’s gone.  Somebody stole my grub!”

Willard felt a terrible sinking, and his stomach cried for food.

“How far is it to the Crooked River Road House?”

“One long day drive—­forty mile.”

“We must make it to-morrow or go hungry, eh?  Well this isn’t the first dog fish I ever ate.”  Both men gnawed a mouldy dried salmon from their precious store.

As Willard removed his footgear he groaned.

“Wat’s the mattaire?”

“I froze my foot two days ago—­snow-shoe strap too tight.”  He exhibited a heel, from which, in removing his inner sock, the flesh and skin had come away.

“That’s all right,” grinned Pierre.  “You got the beeg will lef’ yet.  It take the heducate man for stan’ the col’, you know.”

Willard gritted his teeth.

They awoke to the whine of a grey windstorm that swept the cutting snow in swirling clouds and made travel a madness.  The next day was worse.

Two days of hunger weigh heavy when the cold weakens, and they grew gaunt and fell away in their features.

“I’m glad we’ve got another feed for the dogs,” remarked Willard.  “We can’t let them run hungry, even if we do.”

“I t’ink she’s be hall right to-mor’,” ventured Pierre.  “Thees ain’t snow—­jus’ win’; bimeby all blow hout.  Sacre!  I’ll can eat ’nuff for ’ole harmy.”