Butch, though a Malemute, had a strong strain of collie in him.
It gave him a sense of responsibility. His business was to see that the
team kept strung out on the trail, and Butch was a past-master in the
matter of discipline. His weight was ninety-three fighting pounds, and
he could thrash in short order any dog in the team.
The snow was wet and soft. It clung to everything it touched. The dogs
carried pounds of it in the tufts of hair that rose from their backs.
An icy pyramid had to be knocked from the sled every half-hour. The
snowshoes were heavy with white slush. Densely laden spruce boughs
brushed the faces of the men and showered them with unexpected little
avalanches.
They took turns in going ahead of the team and breaking trail. It
was heavy, muscle-grinding work. Before noon they were both utterly
fatigued. They dragged forward through the slush, lifting their laden
feet sluggishly. They must keep going, and they did, but it seemed to
them that every step must be the last.
Shortly after noon the storm wore itself out. The temperature had been
steadily falling and now it took a rapid drop. They were passing through
timber, and on a little slope they built with a good deal of difficulty
a fire.
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