“You shut up an’ save your wind,” Shorty answered.  “Hi! you brutes!  Hit her up!  Hit her up!”

He was running behind the sled, towing on a short rope.  Smoke could not see him; nor could he see the sled on which he lay at full length.  The fires had been left in the rear, and they were tearing through a wall of blackness as fast as the dogs could spring into it.  This blackness was almost sticky, so nearly did it take on the seeming of substance.

Smoke felt the sled heel up on one runner as it rounded an invisible curve, and from ahead came the snarls of beasts and the oaths of men.  This was known afterward as the Barnes-Slocum Jam.  It was the teams of these two men which first collided, and into it, at full career, piled Smoke’s seven big fighters.  Scarcely more than semi-domesticated wolves, the excitement of that night on Mono Creek had sent every dog fighting mad.  The Klondike dogs, driven without reins, cannot be stopped except by voice, so that there was no stopping this glut of struggle that heaped itself between the narrow rims of the creek.  From behind, sled after sled hurled into the turmoil.  Men who had their teams nearly extricated were overwhelmed by fresh avalanches of dogs—­each animal well fed, well rested, and ripe for battle.

“It’s knock down an’ drag out an’ plow through!” Shorty yelled in his partner’s ear.  “An’ watch out for your knuckles!  You drag dogs out an’ let me do the punchin’!”

What happened in the next half hour Smoke never distinctly remembered.  At the end he emerged exhausted, sobbing for breath, his jaw sore from a fist-blow, his shoulder aching from the bruise of a club, the blood running warmly down one leg from the rip of a dog’s fangs, and both sleeves of his parka torn to shreds.  As in a dream, while the battle still raged behind, he helped Shorty reharness the dogs.  One, dying, they cut from the traces, and in the darkness they felt their way to the repair of the disrupted harness.

“Now you lie down an’ get your wind back,” Shorty commanded.

And through the darkness the dogs sped, with unabated strength, down Mono Creek, across the long cut-off, and to the Yukon.  Here, at the junction with the main river-trail, somebody had lighted a fire, and here Shorty said good-bye.  By the light of the fire, as the sled leaped behind the flying dogs, Smoke caught another of the unforgettable pictures of the Northland.  It was of Shorty, swaying and sinking down limply in the snow, yelling his parting encouragement, one eye blackened and closed, knuckles bruised and broken, and one arm, ripped and fang-torn, gushing forth a steady stream of blood.

“How many ahead?” Smoke asked, as he dropped his tired Hudson Bays and sprang on the waiting sled at the first relay station.

“I counted eleven,” the man called after him, for he was already away, behind the leaping dogs.

Fifteen miles they were to carry him on the next stage, which would fetch him to the mouth of White River.  There were nine of them, but they composed his weakest team.  The twenty-five miles between White River and Sixty Mile he had broken into two stages because of ice-jams, and here two of his heaviest, toughest teams were stationed.