Smoke spat in the air, and the resultant crackle was so immediate and loud that he shook his head.  “I give it up,” he said.  “I’ve never seen cold like this.”

“One winter on the Koyukuk it went to eighty-six below,” Joy answered.  “It’s at least seventy or seventy-five right now, and I know I’ve frosted my cheeks.  They’re burning like fire.”

On the steep slope of the divide there was no ice, so snow, as fine and hard and crystalline as granulated sugar, was poured into the gold-pan by the bushel until enough water was melted for the coffee.  Smoke fried bacon and thawed biscuits.  Shorty kept the fuel supplied and tended the fire, and Joy set the simple table composed of two plates, two cups, two spoons, a tin of mixed salt and pepper, and a tin of sugar.  When it came to eating, she and Smoke shared one set between them.  They ate out of the same plate and drank from the same cup.

It was nearly two in the afternoon when they cleared the crest of the divide and began dropping down a feeder of Squaw Creek.  Earlier in the winter some moose-hunter had made a trail up the canyon—­that is, in going up and down he had stepped always in his previous tracks.  As a result, in the midst of soft snow, and veiled under later snow falls, was a line of irregular hummocks.  If one’s foot missed a hummock, he plunged down through unpacked snow and usually to a fall.  Also, the moose-hunter had been an exceptionally long-legged individual.  Joy, who was eager now that the two men should stake, and fearing that they were slackening their pace on account of her evident weariness, insisted on taking her turn in the lead.  The speed and manner in which she negotiated the precarious footing called out Shorty’s unqualified approval.

“Look at her!” he cried.  “She’s the real goods an’ the red meat.  Look at them moccasins swing along.  No high-heels there.  She uses the legs God gave her.  She’s the right squaw for any bear-hunter.”

She flashed back a smile of acknowledgment that included Smoke.  He caught a feeling of chumminess, though at the same time he was bitingly aware that it was very much of a woman who embraced him in that comradely smile.

Looking back, as they came to the bank of Squaw Creek, they could see the stampede, strung out irregularly, struggling along the descent of the divide.

They slipped down the bank to the creek bed.  The stream, frozen solidly to bottom, was from twenty to thirty feet wide and ran between six- and eight-foot earth banks of alluvial wash.  No recent feet had disturbed the snow that lay upon its ice, and they knew they were above the Discovery claim and the last stakes of the Sea Lion stampeders.

“Look out for springs,” Joy warned, as Smoke led the way down the creek.  “At seventy below you’ll lose your feet if you break through.”

These springs, common to most Klondike streams, never cease at the lowest temperatures.  The water flows out from the banks and lies in pools which are cuddled from the cold by later surface-freezings and snow falls.  Thus, a man, stepping on dry snow, might break through half an inch of ice-skin and find himself up to the knees in water.  In five minutes, unless able to remove the wet gear, the loss of one’s foot was the penalty.