Even the iron frame and steel muscles of the Scotch-Canadian protested
against the task he had set them that day. It was a time to sit snugly
inside by a stove and listen to the howling of the wind as it hurled
itself down from the divide. But from daylight till dark Colby Macdonald
fought with drifts and breasted the storm. He got into the harness with
the dogs. He broke trail for them, cheered them, soothed, comforted,
punished. Long after night had fallen he staggered into the hut of two
prospectors, his parka so stiff with frozen snow that it had to be
beaten with a hammer before the coat could be removed.
"How long since a dog team passed--seven huskies and two men?" was his
first question.
"No dog team has passed for four days," one of the men answered.
"You mean you haven't seen one," Macdonald corrected.
"I mean none has passed--unless it went by in the night while we slept.
And even then our dogs would have warned us."
Macdonald flung his ice-coated gloves to a table and stooped to take off
his mukluks. His face was blue with the cold, but the bleak look in the
eyes came from within. He said nothing more until he was free of his wet
clothes. Then he sat down heavily and passed a hand over his frozen
eyebrows.
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