By careful nursing they soon had a great bonfire going, in front
of which they put their wet socks, mukluks, scarfs, and parkas to dry.
The toes of the dogs had become packed with little ice balls. Gordon and
Holt had to go carefully over the feet of each animal to dig these out.
The old-timer thawed out a slab of dried salmon till the fat began to
frizzle and fed each husky a pound of the fish and a lump of tallow.
He and Gordon made a pot of tea and ate some meat sandwiches they had
brought with them to save cooking until night.
When they took the trail again it was in moccasins instead of mukluks.
The weather was growing steadily colder and with each degree of fall in
the thermometer the trail became easier.
"Mushing at fifty below zero is all right when it is all right,"
explained Holt in the words of the old prospector. "But when it isn't
right it's hell."
"It is not fifty below yet, is it?"
"Nope. But she's on the way. When your breath makes a kinder crackling
noise she's fifty."
Travel was much easier now. There was a crust on the snow that held up
the dogs and the sled so that trail-breaking was not necessary. The
little party pounded steadily over the barren hills.
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