They had been under way for five or six hours when the tardy daylight came, but even thereafter Doret continued to run with his hand upon his sled.  Seldom did he ride, and then only for a moment or two when the going was best.  For the most part he maintained a steady, swinging trot that kept pace with the pattering feet ahead of him and caused the miles rapidly to drop behind.  Through drifts knee-deep, through long, soft stretches he held to that unfaltering stride; occasionally he turned his head and flashed a smile or waved his hand at the man behind.

Along about ten o’clock he halted his team where a dead spruce overhung the river-bank.  By the time Rock had pulled in behind him he had clambered up the bank, ax in hand, and was making the chips fly.  He sent the dry top crashing down, then explained: 

“Dem dogs go better for l’il rest.  We boil de kettle, eh?”

Rock wiped the sweat from his face.  “You’re certainly hitting it off, old man.  We’ve made good time, but I haven’t seen any tracks.  Have you?”

“We see ’em bimeby.”

“Kind of a joke if they hadn’t come, after all—­if they’d really gone out to Hunker.  Gee!  The laugh would be on us.”

“Dey come dis way,” ’Poleon stoutly maintained.

Soon a blaze was going; then, while the ice in the blackened tea-bucket was melting, the drivers sliced a slab of bacon into small cubes and fed it sparingly to their animals, after which they carefully examined the dogs’ feet and cleaned them of ice and snow pellets.

The tea was gulped, the hardtack swallowed, and the travelers were under way again almost before their sweaty bodies had begun to chill.  On they hurried, mile after mile, sweeping past bends, eagerly, hopefully scanning every empty tangent that opened up ahead of them.  They made fast time indeed, but the immensity of the desolation through which they passed, the tremendous scale upon which this country had been molded, made their progress seem slower than an ant-crawl.

Eventually ’Poleon shouted something and pointed to the trail underfoot.  Rock fancied he could detect the faint, fresh markings of sled runners, but into them he could not read much significance.  It was an encouragement, to be sure, but, nevertheless, he still had doubts, and those doubts were not dispelled until Doret again halted his team, this time beside the cold embers of a fire.  Fresh chips were scattered under the bank, charred fagots had embedded themselves in the ice and were frozen fast, but ’Poleon interpreted the various signs without difficulty.

“Here dey mak’ breakfas’—­’bout daylight,” said he.  “Dey go slower as us.”

“But they’re going pretty fast, for all that.  We’ll never get them this side of Forty Mile.”

“You don’ spec’ it, do you?  Dey got beeg scare, dem feller.  Dey runnin’ so fas’ dey can.”