ine was not merely darkness,
but an abrupt cessation of the smooth stretch. There the trail, he
knew, narrowed to a single sled-width. Leaning out ahead, he caught the
haul-rope and drew his leaping sled up to the wheel-dog. He caught the
animal by the hind legs and threw it. With a snarl of rage it tried to
slash him with its fangs, but was dragged on by the rest of the team.
Its body proved an efficient brake, and the two other teams, still
abreast, dashed ahead into the darkness for the narrow way.

Smoke heard the crash and uproar of their collision, released his
wheeler, sprang to the gee-pole, and urged his team to the right into
the soft snow where the straining animals wallowed to their necks. It
was exhausting work, but he won by the tangled teams and gained the
hard-packed trail beyond.

On the relay out of Sixty Mile, Smoke had next to his poorest team, and
though the going was good, he had set it a short fifteen miles. Two more
teams would bring him into Dawson and to the gold-recorder's office, and
Smoke had selected his best animals for the last two stretches. Sitka
Charley himself waited with the eight Malemutes that would jerk Smoke
along for twenty miles, and for the finish, with a fifteen-mile run, was
his own team--the team he had had all winter and which had been with him
in the search for Surprise Lake.

The two men he had left entangled at Sixty Mile failed to overtake him,
and, on the other hand, his team failed to overtake any of the three
that still led. His animals were willing, though they lacked stamina
and speed, and little urging was needed to keep them jumping into it at
their best. There was nothing for Smoke to do but to lie face downward
and hold on. Now and again he would plunge out of the darkness into
the circle of light about a blazing fire, catch a glimpse of furred men
standing by harnessed and waiting dogs, and plunge into the darkness
again. Mile after mile, with only the grind and jar of the runners in
his ears, he sped on. Almost automatically he kept his place as the sled
bumped ahead or half lifted and heeled on the swings and swerves of the
bends. First one, and then another, without apparent rhyme or reason,
three faces limned themselves on his consciousness: Joy Gastell's,
laughing and audacious; Shorty's, battered and exhausted by the struggle
down Mono Creek; and John Bellew's, seamed and rigid, as if cast in
iron, so unrelenting was its severity. And sometimes Smok