“Well, ye have broken virgin snow, labored at the gee-pole, and are not unused to the packed river-jams; so I will talk little of the toil, save that on some days we made ten miles, and on others thirty, but more often ten.  And the best of the grub was not good, while we went on stint from the start.  Likewise the pick of the dogs was poor, and we were hard put to keep them on their legs.  At the White River our three sleds became two sleds, and we had only come two hundred miles.  But we lost nothing; the dogs that left the traces went into the bellies of those that remained.

“Not a greeting, not a curl of smoke, till we made Pelly.  Here I had counted on grub; and here I had counted on leaving Long Jeff, who was whining and trail-sore.  But the factor’s lungs were wheezing, his eyes bright, his cache nigh empty; and he showed us the empty cache of the missionary, also his grave with the rocks piled high to keep off the dogs.  There was a bunch of Indians there, but babies and old men there were none, and it was clear that few would see the spring.

“So we pulled on, light-stomached and heavy-hearted, with half a thousand miles of snow and silence between us and Haines Mission by the sea.  The darkness was at its worst, and at midday the sun could not clear the sky-line to the south.  But the ice-jams were smaller, the going better; so I pushed the dogs hard and traveled late and early.  As I said at Forty Mile, every inch of it was snow-shoe work.  And the shoes made great sores on our feet, which cracked and scabbed but would not heal.  And every day these sores grew more grievous, till in the morning, when we girded on the shoes, Long Jeff cried like a child.  I put him at the fore of the light sled to break trail, but he slipped off the shoes for comfort.  Because of this the trail was not packed, his moccasins made great holes, and into these holes the dogs wallowed.  The bones of the dogs were ready to break through their hides, and this was not good for them.  So I spoke hard words to the man, and he promised, and broke his word.  Then I beat him with the dog-whip, and after that the dogs wallowed no more.  He was a child, what of the pain and the streak of fat.

“But Passuk.  While the man lay by the fire and wept, she cooked, and in the morning helped lash the sleds, and in the evening to unlash them.  And she saved the dogs.  Ever was she to the fore, lifting the webbed shoes and making the way easy.  Passuk—­how shall I say?—­I took it for granted that she should do these things, and thought no more about it.  For my mind was busy with other matters, and besides, I was young in years and knew little of woman.  It was only on looking back that I came to understand.