It was a foretaste of what would happen when the men reached their sleds.  Men were pouring over the other bank and piling into the jam.  They swarmed up the bank in bunches, and in bunches were dragged back by their impatient fellows.  More blows were struck, curses rose from the panting chests of those who still had wind to spare, and Smoke, curiously visioning the face of Joy Gastell, hoped that the mallets would not be brought into play.  Overthrown, trod upon, groping in the snow for his lost stakes, he at last crawled out of the crush and attacked the bank farther along.  Others were doing this, and it was his luck to have many men in advance of him in the race for the northwestern corner.

Reaching the fourth corner, he tripped headlong and in the long sprawling fall lost his remaining stake.  For five minutes he groped in the darkness before he found it, and all the time the panting runners were passing him.  From the last corner to the creek he began overtaking men for whom the mile run had been too much.  In the creek itself Bedlam had broken loose.  A dozen sleds were piled up and overturned, and nearly a hundred dogs were locked in combat.  Among them men struggled, tearing the tangled animals apart, or beating them apart with clubs.  In the fleeting glimpse he caught of it, Smoke wondered if he had ever seen a Dore grotesquery to compare.

Leaping down the bank beyond the glutted passage, he gained the hard-footing of the sled-trail and made better time.  Here, in packed harbors beside the narrow trail, sleds and men waited for runners that were still behind.  From the rear came the whine and rush of dogs, and Smoke had barely time to leap aside into the deep snow.  A sled tore past, and he made out the man kneeling and shouting madly.  Scarcely was it by when it stopped with a crash of battle.  The excited dogs of a harbored sled, resenting the passing animals, had got out of hand and sprung upon them.

Smoke plunged around and by.  He could see the green lantern of Von Schroeder and, just below it, the red flare that marked his own team.  Two men were guarding Schroeder’s dogs, with short clubs interposed between them and the trail.

“Come on, you Smoke!  Come on, you Smoke!” he could hear Shorty calling anxiously.

“Coming!” he gasped.

By the red flare, he could see the snow torn up and trampled, and from the way his partner breathed he knew a battle had been fought.  He staggered to the sled, and, in a moment he was falling on it, Shorty’s whip snapped as he yelled:  “Mush! you devils!  Mush!”

The dogs sprang into the breast-bands, and the sled jerked abruptly ahead.  They were big animals—­Hanson’s prize team of Hudson Bays—­ and Smoke had selected them for the first stage, which included the ten miles of Mono, the heavy going of the cut-off across the flat at the mouth, and the first ten miles of the Yukon stretch.

“How many are ahead?” he asked.